Rise of the Wolf (The Forest Lord Book 3)

by Steven A McKay

  “Maybe not, Robert, maybe not,” Osferth shrugged. “But God works in mysterious ways. Who knows what the prior is thinking right now? We're all tools of the Almighty after all – even Prior de Martini.”

  “That bastard's a tool of Satan,” Tuck grunted, touching a hand to the crucifix he wore around his neck to avert any evil that might be drawn to them by the Dark One's name. “I thought that was why you'd come with me.”

  “It is,” Osferth agreed, nodding vigorously. “I couldn't stay in the priory any longer – De Martini isn't fit to be in charge of our brothers. So... tell me about the giant: Little John.”

  The abrupt change in the conversation threw Tuck, but he'd come to expect odd behaviour from his companion, whose thoughts seemed to flit from one place to another like a sparrow seeking a mouldy crust. And Osferth was just as innocent as one of the little birds, even if he did appear to have something of a dark streak hidden just beneath the surface. Tuck wondered what they would do with the strange, child-like monk when they finally reached Barnsdale and found the outlaws.

  But they would cross that bridge when they came to it. For now, Osferth had asked about Little John and there was nothing Tuck liked better than telling tales about the exploits of his old friends.

  “Huge he is. Massive! Biggest man you've ever seen in your life.”

  Osferth listened, eyes shining with interest as their mounts carried them north, and Tuck knew he'd chosen the right path. God was leading him home.

  * * *

  “I can't give him the arrow, in the name of Christ. It's worth a fortune. We had it made from solid silver, remember?”

  “I don't think you've got much choice,” the grinning Gisbourne said, nodding his head towards the huge crowd that had gathered and was continuing to swell as the chant increased in volume. “The people have decided Hood's the winner of your tourney.”

  “Silver arrow! Silver arrow!”

  “Fuck the people,” de Faucumberg shouted, eyes blazing and spittle flecking his neatly-trimmed grey beard. “We're to let three notorious outlaws walk free, taking my silver arrow with them? How will I pay the taxes to the king without the silver in that arrow? This is your fault, Gisbourne, you fucking oaf. You had the clever idea to offer a real silver arrow and now look where it's got us.”

  Sir Guy shrugged, the smirk ever-present on his ruined face now. “It was a quite remarkable shot, you must admit – certainly worthy of winning the arrow. And it is, as you noted yourself not long ago, King Edward's orders that the wolf's heads should be allowed to walk free.”

  As they spoke, de Faucumberg realised a new chant had begun and now vied with the first for dominance. The sheriff groaned as the cries of “Robin Hood! Robin Hood!” filled the air and Allan-a-Dale clapped his hands encouragingly with the people that stood closest to them.

  This was a disaster; another little story at his expense to add to the burgeoning legend that surrounded this young outlaw from Wakefield and his gang.

  “Silence!” de Faucumberg roared, holding his hands aloft and looking murderously at the noisy mob before him. “Silence!” He beckoned to one of his soldiers and whispered in his ear. “Go to the castle and bring reinforcements, enough to quell any rioting here.”

  The crowd had stopped their chants, eager to hear their sheriff's words. They had no idea the silver arrow had simply been a ruse designed to lure Robin Hood to Nottingham. No idea that any eventual winner was never supposed to be allowed to keep the magnificent, and insanely expensive, piece.

  “Good people of Nottingham, and visitors to our fine city,” the sheriff began, forcing a benevolent smile onto his face, “you are right: before us stands the famous outlaw, Robin Hood, with two of his friends.”

  “That's Little John that is,” someone piped up from within the crowd, and his assertion was met with agreement from all around. “Aye, must be – look at the size of the bastard, he's huge!”

  John smiled a little shyly, his face turning red from the attention, not to mention the not-inconsiderable weight of Robin atop his shoulders, but de Faucumberg carried on, drawing all eyes back to himself.

  “Hood has made a remarkable shot using a borrowed longbow –”

  “Miraculous!”

  “Never seen anything like it!”

  “Yes, an excellent shot,” the sheriff nodded, smiling in agreement. “And, as a reward, I will allow Hood and his two friends to go free, although I should place them in chains and throw them into the castle jail to await justice.”

  The crowd began to grumble and mutter and the sheriff again raised his hands. “The tournament is not over yet; it would not be fair to award the silver arrow to someone that wasn't even a listed competitor and, as such, is not entitled to any prize.”

  The sheriff watched the crowd, as did Gisbourne beside him and it seemed the speech had done its work. The words were reasonable and fair and the people seemed happy enough to accept it.

  Then the two noblemen spotted Allan-a-Dale saying something to the red-haired archer that Hood had taken the longbow from. The man nodded thoughtfully at whatever the wolf's head was telling him then he looked up from beneath the flaming curls and shouted towards the raised table.

  “None of us will ever beat that shot, my lord sheriff. It was a once-in-a-lifetime effort. I forfeit any claim to the silver arrow for I'll never best that man's skill, aye, even if I lived 'til I were a hundred years old!”

  Some of the other archers nodded and shouted agreement, giving up any claim to the great prize and, again, the troublemaking minstrel started the chanting.

  “Silver arrow! Silver arrow! Robin Hood! Robin Hood!”

  “Worthless bastard,” de Faucumerg muttered, looking murderously at the clapping minstrel. “I should have hanged him the first day we had him in custody. Silence!” Again, he raised his hands and waited on the noise to abate before he spoke once more into the calm.

  “I will not turn over the prize to an outlaw. It is enough that he's being given his freedom this day although, mark this well, Hood: Sir Guy and his men, along with my own garrison, will still be doing everything in our power to put an end to you and your criminal gang.”

  “You can bet your life on it,” Gisbourne spat, pointing the tip of his elegant sword at the outlaws. “I won't rest until you're dead, you scum.”

  “Give Hood the arrow you swindler,” someone shouted from the safe anonymity of the mob and many others cried out in angry agreement.

  “Give him it or we'll burn the city to the ground!”

  There were cheers at that shout and de Faucumberg noticed Allan-a-Dale had disappeared into the crowd. No doubt it was the minstrel who was trying to stoke the ire of the people and, unfortunately, it seemed to be working, as cries of “burn it!” began to ring out from various sections of the gathering.

  From far to the rear of the mob there was a crashing sound as one of the vendor's stalls was tipped over and smoke slowly curled upwards from it, forming a greasy smear in the afternoon sky.

  “Burn it to the ground!”

  Another stall crashed over and some of the people began to howl and laugh making the sheriff realise his extra soldiers, who were now jogging into view, were not going to be able to contain this without a great deal of bloodshed. De Faucumberg was not the type of sheriff to deal with civil unrest with displays of brutality and killing, but that arrow... it was worth a fortune! He'd have to make up the missing tax monies from his own purse if he handed it over to the damned wolf's head.

  “Whatever you're planning,” Gisbourne barked, interrupting the sheriff's whirling thoughts, “you better get on with it. Either give Hood the arrow or set your men to cracking heads. That lot are about to erupt.”

  True enough, more and more of the people were joining in with the chants now, not just for the arrow and the outlaw, but, as they visibly steeled themselves for the inevitable outpouring of rage and destruction that accompanied any riot, many of them were taking up the cries of, “burn it!”
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  “Oh for Christ's sake. Alright!” De Faucumberg turned and waved a hand angrily towards the heavily guarded table that displayed the wondrous arrow. “Bring it to me, man, now.”

  The soldier that had been addressed hurried to obey, not relishing the idea of wading in amongst his own townsfolk with the halberd he wielded, simply to save the sheriff some money. He lifted the arrow, which was surprisingly heavy thanks to the high quality of the silver that had been used to construct it, and brought it over to his lord and commander.

  “Come and get it, wolf's head,” the sheriff shouted, shaking the arrow in the air furiously as the people, who had been readying themselves to go on a rampage now switched their mood and began to cheer and hoot in delight at their apparent victory over the nobles.

  “Let me down,” Robin said and John slowly bent his knees so his passenger could slide onto the ground. “Here, cover me.”

  He handed the giant the longbow, noting with satisfaction that Allan had also managed to procure one of the weapons from somewhere, then, making his way through the grinning crowd, he walked up the small flight of steps to the high table.

  Sheriff de Faucumberg dropped the heavy silver trophy into the outlaw's open palms and Robin turned, a wide grin forming on his honest face as he raised the arrow skywards and was rewarded with a deafening cheer.

  “Thank you, my lord sheriff,” the young wolf's head winked over his shoulder as he danced past the impotent guards, down the steps and back towards his friends. When he reached them he looked at John and gestured for the giant to hand the longbow back to its red-haired owner. “Now, give me a boost.”

  John cupped his hands and Robin stepped into them, rising in the air so the entire crowd could see him. “This is a fine prize, my friends,” he shouted, “and worth a fortune!” The people cheered and clapped, assuring him he deserved it for his fine shot. “But my companions and I have no use for wealth and finery in the greenwood. All we need are arrows, and food and friendship, and ale!”

  “Lots of ale!” Little John roared agreement and everyone cheered again, thoroughly enjoying themselves.

  “We'll take the sheriff's silver prize back to Barnsdale and cut slivers from it which we'll distribute amongst those most needy in the towns and villages hereabouts. God bless you all!”

  The people went crazy, chanting Robin's name and patting the three outlaws on the back as they headed towards the city gates and freedom.

  Sir Henry and Gisbourne watched them go, faces tight with rage and defeat.

  “Look at the smug bastard, he has them eating out of his hand,” the bounty hunter spat.

  “This is your fault,” de Faucumberg repeated his earlier accusation, turning to include Matt Groves who had reappeared behind his captain, Sir Guy. “You and that vermin. Not only was it your idea to offer the silver arrow as a prize, but it was your lackey's attempt to kill Hood that made the outlaw grab the longbow. If you'd have just let him leave like I ordered, Hood would never have made that unbelievable shot and I wouldn't be hundreds of pounds out of pocket!”

  Groves opened his mouth to say something but the sheriff rounded on him viciously, eyes flaring, enraged like Gisbourne had never seen him before. “Get out of my sight, you arsehole! In fact, get the fuck out of my city. If I ever see you again I'll repeal your pardon and see you on the gibbet. And as for you,” de Faucumberg glared at Sir Guy. “You can go with him. I don't want to see your face in Nottingham until you've destroyed Hood and his gang and returned that silver arrow to me.”

  * * *

  “So you were a sailor, eh?”

  Matt Groves nodded and took a long pull of the cheap ale that had been served to them in Horbury. When the sheriff threw them out of Nottingham, Sir Guy had taken Matt and the rest of his men north to begin their hunt for Robin Hood and his gang anew. The soldiers erected makeshift shelters outside the village while Gisbourne and Groves had come into the small village to rent a room for the night. If the place had been big enough all the men could have paid for their own rooms but the little inn only boasted four guest rooms and all were cramped, or 'cosy' as the landlord described them.

  Now, the bounty hunter and his second-in-command sat in the inn's common room by a blazing fire which crackled and spit every so often apparently in protestation at the poor quality damp wood that was being burned. Still, it gave off enough warmth and light to make the room comfortable and the ale that Matt had heated with a poker was also helping him relax after their enforced journey. Gisbourne, a man who always liked to be in total control of himself, was drinking the weaker ale that the landlord gave to his children.

  “Aye, I've been a sailor. Twice.” Matt said. “It was my first real job when I was about fourteen, then when I left Hood's gang and the money you'd given me for betraying them ran out I took a berth on a ship sailing from Hull to Bergen, in Norway.” He took another sip, relishing the warm feeling that was spreading quickly outwards from his belly, and grimaced at his captain. “I'm not much of a sailor to be honest. Or much of an outlaw either come to think of it. I hate being stuck in a small space with a load of other men.”

  Gisbourne hid a small smile behind his hand, imagining how unpleasant Matt's company would be if one were stuck aboard a ship with him for weeks on end.

  “Well, at least now you're free to come and go as you please,” the king's man said but Matt shook his head with a scowl.

  “Not really. We'll need to kill that arsehole Hood. I don't want to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life, wondering when he'll come for revenge because I killed his mate.”

  Groves had led Robin and his childhood friend, Much, the son of the miller from Wakefield, into a trap set by Gisbourne the previous year. Much had been shot by the Raven then run through by Matt himself and both men knew Hood would never forget that day.

  “We'll find him, never fear,” Gisbourne promised. “We just need to put even more pressure on the villagers who give aid to the outlaws. Eventually someone will decide enough is enough and see us as a worse threat than Hood or his men. Once we know the location of their camp we'll get them.”

  “I wouldn't be so sure,” Matt replied gloomily. “Lawmen have known where we were hiding in the past but we still always managed to escape. They'll have lookouts posted and, apart from that, they're all hardy fighters. As you know yourself...” His voice trailed off as Gisbourne reached up unconsciously to touch his ruined eye and glared at him.

  “Once we find their location,” the Raven promised, “I'll send word back to Nottingham and ask – no, demand – that de Faucumberg sends us enough of his soldiers to make certain we can surround the outlaws' camp and outnumber them more than three to one before we even begin any attack. Trust me – I've learned a few lessons since I've been sparring with Hood. He's no military genius, he's just some peasant that's had a lucky streak.” He sipped the weak ale and wiped his mouth neatly. “Well, his luck won't hold forever. I can feel it; the end of my long chase is coming.”

  Matt smiled, strangely pleased by the crazed look that filled his captain's eyes. He knew why Hood and the rest of them had never been captured yet: it was because the people hunting them – Gisbourne and the previous bailiff Adam Gurdon before that – had played it safe. Neither of them had wanted to upset the commoners too much – Sheriff de Faucumberg had specifically warned both lawmen to tread lightly and not cause any unrest among the locals.

  When Adam Gurdon had taken the law into his own hands and falsely arrested Hood's sweetheart Matilda there had been disastrous consequences for the bailiff and, ever since, the sheriff had made sure the villagers were mostly left alone.

  It was a ridiculous policy, Groves thought. How could they be expected to catch the outlaws while the locals provided them with supplies and pretended not to know their whereabouts when the law turned up looking for answers? No, if Matt had been in charge, Hood would have been strung up a long time ago. Squeeze the villagers so hard that they'd be desperate to do anything that res
tored peace to their lives, even if that mean turning over the now-legendary wolf's head, Robin Hood.

  Up until now Gisbourne's orders from the sheriff, and his own strange code of honour, had meant the people of Wakefield, Hathersage, Penyston, and all the other little towns and villages, had been allowed to live their lives unmolested by the men hunting Hood. But recently there had been a little spark of insanity in Sir Guy's eye and Matt had done his best to fan that spark into a raging balefire.

  “The people around here were always happy to help us,” Matt said, watching his leader's face. “They knew you and your men wouldn't harm them. They used to laugh about it. 'The Raven,' they'd say to us, 'not much of a fucking raven that can't use his beak or talons.'”

  Gisbourne was no fool and he had an inkling Groves was also somewhat smarter – or at least more devious – than people assumed. He suspected his new second-in-command was goading him, pushing him to take more forceful action in their hunt for the accursed outlaw. But, in truth, Gisbourne needed little goading. Ever since Hood had humiliated him, and sliced off half his face, the Raven had been nursing a growing hatred for the young man which had only grown fiercer in recent weeks.

  It was indeed time to use harsher measures to deal with Hood and his men once and for all. If that meant bringing violence to the villages that lay dotted around the forest of Barnsdale, so be it. Burning Patrick Prudhomme's house would just be the beginning.

  “How did you end up a sailor then?” Sir Guy asked, changing the subject abruptly. “I thought you were born in Sheffield. That's not exactly a port town.”

  Matt sat back, mug resting on his paunch, and stretched his legs out towards the fire, chair creaking in protest as he settled his considerable bulk comfortably.

  “Aye, I'm a Sheffield man originally but I left there when I was old enough to grow my first beard. My mother died of fever when I was a lad, so it was just me, my da, and my big brother Philip.”