The friars hesitated for a moment before first one, then the other, threw their head's back and their faces were revealed.
The sheriff took an involuntary step backwards, while Gisbourne whispered in shock: “You...!”
The guards now had their halberds pointed straight at Robin and Little John who watched the sheriff's eyes stray downwards to the parchment the notorious wolf's head held in his hands.
“We bring word from the king.”
For long moments no one spoke, they simply stared in disbelief at the two infamous outlaws who had so brazenly walked into the city before Gisbourne finally broke the spell.
“Kill them!”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Hold!” The sheriff was a man well used to command and his voice reflected that fact as it rang out over the sounds of the crowd. He was pleased to note that none of his own men had followed Gisbourne's command to attack the two wolf's heads, but they had moved in even closer to make sure the big men wouldn't be a threat.
The king's bounty hunter found his path to Hood blocked by blue-liveried guardsmen and he spat in disgust at de Faucumberg's refusal to cut the hated outlaw down where he stood, apparently unarmed and completely in their power.
“You're Hood, and you're the big impudent bastard that made a joke about my mother the last time we met, yes?”
Robin shook his head but Little John couldn't stop a smile from appearing on his still cleanly-shaven face. “Aye, lord sheriff, that was me,” he agreed. “Sorry about that.” His cheeky grin marked the apology as insincere but the sheriff just grunted irritably.
“I assume there's a good reason you've walked into my city, and my presence, dressed as friars?”
“As I said, we bring word from King Edward.” Robin held out the rolled up parchment, slowly so as not to provoke a nervous thrust from any of the halberd-wielding guards.
De Faucumberg nodded to one of the soldiers to bring him the scroll and, as he was given it he inspected the wax seal closely. It certainly appeared to be Edward's royal seal. “How did you come to be in possession of this? And what happened to the two real friars that I sent to London? Or do I not want to know the answer to that?”
Robin shrugged. “They decided the journey was too far and too dangerous. We went in their stead.”
Gisbourne laughed in disbelief and the sheriff raised a questioning eyebrow himself at that idea before he broke the wax seal and, sitting back down on his great seat, unrolled the letter from the king and began to read.
“Are you taking this seriously?” Sir Guy demanded into the silence. “Why haven't you had these two criminals – dangerous criminals,” he pointed to his ruined face furiously, “chained like the animals they are?”
The sheriff ignored him as he read but it was obvious whatever was in the king's letter did not please him. Robin and John knew de Faucumberg would be angry at Edward's refusal to recall his erratic bounty hunter but it was when the letter moved onto Allan-a-Dale that the seated nobleman jumped up and roared in disbelief.
“The king wants me to release the wolf's head? What is this nonsense?” He re-read the entire letter in a state of rising fury and shock before turning to glare at the two big outlaws. “This is your doing isn't it, you bastards? You spun Edward some tale and he believed it.” He shook his head and sighed, throwing the letter onto the table in resignation. “You really do seem to be touched by God, Hood, I'll say that for you.”
“What are you talking about de Faucumberg?” Gisbourne demanded, shoving his way past the guards to reach for the letter which the sheriff retrieved before the king's man could read it. Couldn't have him knowing the sheriff was trying to get rid of him, could they? That would make things even more unpleasant than they already were...
“It seems we've been outwitted by the wolf's head again,” de Faucumberg replied, still glaring at the young outlaw who always seemed to be one step ahead of their efforts to capture or kill him. “I can only guess that these two – in their disguise as holy men – gave the king some fabricated story about the minstrel's innocence and, as a result, Edward has ordered me to release him.”
Gisbourne snorted. “How can you be sure that letter's from the king? It must be a forgery.”
The sheriff shook his head. “Oh it's genuine, no doubt about it – the seal was real and I recognise his scribe's handwriting.”
“Fine, the minstrel can go free. He's nothing anyway. It's that young prick that we really want and I assume the king says nothing about us letting him go as well.” He pointed his sword at Robin and smiled. “You probably thought you were doing the noble thing coming here to free your friend, but you're going to suffer for it now. I've waited a long time to repay you for taking my eye.”
“I have one more letter from the king, my lord.”
The wolf's head produced another scroll from within the grey friar's cassock and proffered it to the sheriff whose guard passed it to him.
Again, the seal was inspected before being broken and the parchment unrolled and slowly read by de Faucumberg who could only shake his head, a small smile of defeat twitching at the corners of his mouth. “Hood thought you'd say something like that, Sir Guy, and had the king – who appears to have taken rather a liking to our outlaws here – write another letter of protection. This time for the pair of them.”
Now he did pass the scroll to Gisbourne who read it in silence, rage colouring his face as he realised all three of Hood's gang were simply going to walk right out of the city gates and back to their camp in Barnsdale and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
There was a grudging respect in the sheriff's eyes as he looked up at Robin and issued the command to one of his guards to bring Allan-a-Dale from his cell in the dungeon along with all his possessions. “It's a shame you're on the other side of the law,” he told the young man. “I could find a use for someone like you in my garrison. Oh well,” he shrugged again and settled back down into his chair, grasping his wine cup with a twinkle in his eye. “You've beaten us again this day and, no doubt, your minstrel friend will come up with some song all about it that will enhance your legendary status among the common people even more.” He emptied the cup and refilled it from a large jug. “Make the most of your victory, wolf's head, because we will catch you one day. He'll make damn sure of it.”
He raised a finger from his cup and pointed at Sir Guy who still stood, sword drawn, looking as if he might still at any moment attack the two outlaws, despite the king's order of protection.
“And, as for the king... when he finds out you deceived him, well, I doubt he'll be too pleased.”
Robin wasn't so sure. “We'll see, lord sheriff. We'll see. Ned told us he'd be coming north again soon to see things were being run properly and said he hoped to meet us again. We got on well with him didn't we, John? He even asked if we'd like to join his rowing team.”
Gisbourne growled at Robin's use of a diminutive nickname for their monarch. “Aye, well, the king always did enjoy spending time with the lower end of the social scale. I'm not surprised he liked your company.”
“Shut it, Gisbourne, you ugly twat,” John replied with a grin. “No one cares what you think.”
De Faucumberg hid his smile behind his cup and was relieved to see his guard returning, at last, with the captured minstrel in tow. “Here he is,” he said, waving towards them as they approached and everyone except the fuming Raven turned to watch.
Allan, face caked with dried blood and dirt, looked confused when he spotted his two friends shorn and dressed as friars but he held his peace, not wanting to upset whatever game it was they were playing with the sheriff and Gisbourne.
“You're free to go,” de Faucumberg said, waving his hand to encompass all three of the outlaws. “My men will escort you to the city gates safely. Gisbourne, you will remain here so you don't do anything rash that'll bring the king's wrath down upon me for disobeying his orders.”
“Disobeying his orders? You really thi
nk the king wants you to let Robin Hood and two of his men walk free, just like that, as a result of this deception they've perpetrated? Robin Hood, the man the king sent me here specifically to deal with?”
“No, quite possibly not,” the sheriff agreed. “But I am the king's servant and, as such, I am expected to carry out his orders without question, unfortunately. His letters state very clearly that these three are to be sent on their way and so that is what will happen. We will just need to recapture them another day.”
Although de Faucumberg was dismayed to be letting the three outlaws walk free, it cheered him and somewhat softened the blow to see the rage that filled Gisbourne. It felt very good to see the bounty hunter taken down a peg or two again, even if it was at the hands of the wolf's head.
Robin could also see the black rage that twisted Sir Guy's face and threatened to overwhelm the king's man, so he slowly began to move backwards, away from the sheriff's high table, gesturing John and Allan to follow his lead.
“You alright?” he asked the minstrel, eyeing him with concern.
“Aye,” Allan grunted with a smile. “Nothing damaged other than my pride.”
As they neared the competitors in the archery tournament Robin hissed a curse as he spotted the one man in the world that he hated even more than Gisbourne: “Matt Groves.”
The young outlaw captain spat the name like the vilest oath when he saw Groves appearing through the crowd, half-a-dozen of Gisbourne's own men – all in the simple brown and green clothing of foresters – in tow. “That filthy piece of shit's brought men to kill us, no matter what the sheriff's commanded.”
Gisbourne had noticed Robin's angry gaze and he turned to see his second-in-command nearing. His thoughts whirled as he debated whether to go against de Faucumberg's orders; it might mean fighting the sheriff's soldiers, if they decided to try and stop him.
But he did despise the lowly yeoman from Wakefield who had so painfully taken half his face the previous year. “Good work, Matt,” the king's man shouted. “We're not letting those criminals just walk out of Nottingham. Cut them down!”
De Faucumberg was practically foaming at the mouth, enraged that Groves had returned after he'd been told in no uncertain terms to leave, and not only that, the sullen-faced prick had brought soldiers to defy him.
“Stop them,” he roared at his own men who outnumbered Gisbourne's small Groves-led force, but the soldiers moved slowly, not really sure what the hell was going on and reluctant to get involved in whatever power-struggle was being played out by the two noblemen. The sheriff might be their commander, but it was a brave man who defied the Raven, especially recently, when he'd become even more erratic and volatile than ever.
The outlaws were unarmed, and they looked uncertainly at each other as Gisbourne's men came for them, swords drawn and obviously prepared to use lethal force – there would be no mercy from them, that much was clear, and the blue-liveried sheriff's men, although they were moving now to head-off the newcomers, wouldn't reach them in time.
All of this was going on unnoticed by most of the large crowd who stood engrossed in the archery competition. The longbowmen were also oblivious to what was happening at their backs but as Robin and his hastily retreating companions came close to them one stocky man with a shock of red hair turned, surprised to see two friars and a filthy-looking peasant about to be cut down by a group of foresters.
“May I?”
The archer stood, open-mouthed in confusion but handed over his great warbow and the broadhead arrow he had been ready to loose and Robin smiled his thanks.
“God bless you, my son,” he grunted before nocking the arrow to the hemp string and rolling his enormous shoulders, smiling at the oncoming Groves. “Hold, Matt, or I'll take your fucking head right off.”
Their pursuers stopped dead in their tracks and the former outlaw's face turned pale with the realisation Hood held his life in his hands.
“You've seen what an arrow like this can do to a man,” Robin shouted although he hardly needed to as the cheering, chattering crowd that had been so absorbed in the tourney spotted the friar taking the longbow and now fell silent to watch the even more entertaining drama unfold in front of them. “The iron tip will penetrate right through that ugly face of yours and out the back of your skull,” Robin continued, buying time until the sheriff's soldiers finally reached Gisbourne's men and blocked them off, ready to stop their progress should they try to move again. “Your head will explode like an old apple, and it'll make me happy to know I've avenged Much's death at your hands, you evil scum.”
Robin raised the bow a fraction, ready to draw and aim it right at Matt but his gaze moved to the sheriff who stood watching the confrontation stony-faced. “I don't think Sir Henry would allow me to walk free if I was to kill you though. It'll have to be another day.”
Knowing they were safe, Robin suddenly turned, drew the string taut, sighted instinctively and loosed his arrow towards one of the big straw targets.
The spectators held their breath for a moment longer as they looked to see where the shot had landed before a young boy, his eyesight sharper than most in the crowd, muttered in a high-pitched voice, “Holy mother of God!”
Little John and Allan-a-Dale both turned to fix their leader with shocked smiles and the noise of the people rose to a deafening clamour.
“A bullseye! He hit a bullseye!”
“Not just a bullseye – he's split it! He's split the other arrow right down the middle!”
“It's a miracle!”
“How the fuck did you do that?” Little John grabbed Robin's arm and stared at him in awed disbelief. “I've never seen anything like it in my life; I didn't even think it was possible to make a shot like that. And you did it without even setting yourself properly, you just turned and let fly. How?”
Robin just smiled enigmatically as if this had been his plan all along. “Allan, you know how to work a crowd. Get them to start a chant – we're going to get that silver arrow and win our pardons after all. John – lift me up, quick, onto your shoulders.”
The spectators crowded in around them while Groves and Gisbourne's men were shepherded away by the sheriff's soldiers. De Faucumberg himself stood watching, wondering what to make of the day so far.
Yes, he'd lost the chance to execute one of Robin Hood's gang, and on top of that he'd been forced to let Hood himself, along with his giant right-hand man, walk free. But Gisbourne, and now his vile little toady Groves, had been sorely humiliated and that shot the young man had made... it was the stuff of legend. People would tell stories and sing songs about the sheriff's tournament for months once the minstrels got word of what had happened here...
De Faucumberg looked at Allan-a-Dale, wondering what song the man would concoct, and he noticed the minstrel was chanting something already, leading the people who had by now hoisted Hood onto their shoulders.
The crowd swelled even further as the news of what had happened spread throughout the city and the chant slowly grew in volume until the sheriff could pick out the words and, slowly, his mood turned black.
“Silver arrow... Silver arrow... Silver arrow..!”
It was Gisbourne's turn to grin, and the bounty hunter laughed at the sheriff's consternation. “Not so fucking cheerful now, are you?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I promise you, you'll like Robin,” Tuck smiled at Osferth, the affection he felt for the outlaw leader plain on his jowly face. “Everyone likes Robin. Well, apart from Gisbourne. And the sheriff. And Adam Bell. And Matt Groves...” His face broke into a wide grin and he waved his hands happily. “Everyone else likes him though.”
Osferth had noticed a major transformation in the friar since they'd left Lewes behind them and headed farther north. While he'd always seemed confident and competent and hid his emotions fairly well, Tuck had been subdued and plainly unhappy when he was cooped up inside St Mary's. Now, though, it was as if the man had grown ten years younger physically, and thirty years
had dropped from his mental age, so he grinned and hummed hymns like a spry novice. Clearly the thought of joining up with his outlaw friends was pleasing to the aging Tuck.
The journey wasn't as swift as it might have been – Osferth may have been somewhat touched but his devotion to Christ couldn't be questioned. He insisted on saying prayers eight times a day, from Lauds at five in the morning to Compline in the evening and everything in between – just as they'd have done had they still been in the priory. Tuck fidgeted irritably every time they dallied with the worship but he felt guilty to have drawn his younger companion into this adventure and, as a result, he bit his tongue and joined in with the Pater Nosters, Ave Maria and Credo.
In truth, Tuck was somewhat taken aback by just how devout Osferth really was. Someone like him should have been at home in St Mary's and yet, here he was, tagging along with the former-wrestler having been more than happy to give up his life as a clergyman. True, Prior de Martini had been hard on Osferth, but still, people like him often saw that as a trial sent by God, or penance for some unknown sin.
It certainly made the journey more pleasant, if rather slower, having the man along. Flight from the authorities could be a frightening, lonely experience and Tuck was glad to have Osferth with him to keep his mind from their potential troubles.
“I've never been this far north,” Osferth said, looking about him, eyes wide as if the land thereabouts was somehow different to Sussex where he'd spent all of his thirty-odd years. “I feel like Joseph of Arimathea, travelling north to strange new lands, carrying the word of God and Christ to any who'd listen.” He smiled and Tuck smiled back, happy to be with such a delightfully strange travelling companion.
“I have a feeling Prior de Martini doesn't see us in the same light.”
Rise of the Wolf (The Forest Lord Book 3) Page 18