Rise of the Wolf (The Forest Lord Book 3)

by Steven A McKay

  Matt's voice trailed off and he sat, gazing into the dancing flames for a long time, until Gisbourne thought the man must have fallen asleep. “Philip was more of a father to me than my da,” he eventually muttered, eyes still fixed on the hearth. “He was four years older than me, and my best mate. We used to go fishing together all the time; Philip was a fine fisherman. We'd always come home with something for the pot. It was never good enough for da, though...”

  Gisbourne sighed and shifted in his seat, beginning to regret asking to hear this story. It was not going to be a barrel of laughs...

  “My father was a carpenter,” Matt went on, oblivious. “It was a decent job and we never had a leaky roof or draughts coming in through holes in the door at night, no – my da was fine and handy. But Philip and I never really felt comfortable in the house.” He looked up at Sir Guy and nodded towards the bounty-hunter's mug. “I admire you for sticking to that weak, watered-down ale, even if it does taste like piss. This stuff,” he hefted his own mug of strong ale ruefully, “is the devil's own brew. It's the source of all evil in this world.”

  Ignoring his own platitude, Matt took a long drink, gasping with pleasure as he leaned forward and slammed the empty wooden mug onto the table. “More, inn-keep!”

  As the landlord hurried to obey, Groves stuck a poker in the fire to warm before crossing his hands in his lap and continuing his tale.

  “I like a drink, I have to be honest, I do. Nothing better in the world than a few mugs of ale and a nice pair of tits to get your hands on, eh?” He grinned at his captain but Gisbourne only nodded politely, thinking of lots of things he'd enjoy more than either of those.

  “Well, my da liked a drink as well, even more than I do. It was all the bastard lived for.” The smile fell from Matt's face and his usual sour expression returned. “You'd think he'd have wanted to spend time with us – his boys. See us growing up into men. But no, the useless sot would take himself straight to the local alehouse as soon as he finished work and had his pay in his purse. Then, when the place shut for the night, or he got himself thrown out, he'd come home and...”

  Again his voice trailed off and the inn-keeper hurried over to hand him another mug brimming with ale. He lifted the hot poker from the fire and placed the bright tip into the liquid which hissed and steamed in protest.

  “Philip got it the worst, probably because he was bigger, and he had more of a mouth on him than I did. I don't know why my da was always angry when he came home – maybe my mother's death had done something to his head. Or maybe the drink made him like that. Some people get happy when they have a few ales – they sing songs and dance about like idiots. My da always seemed to get pissed off when he had a few though...”

  A small smile flickered on his face. “Aye, Philip would give as good as he got, with his words. But it would just make da even angrier, then he'd take off his belt, or use his bare hands. I must have been about six or seven when this was going on, so my brother would have been only ten or eleven. A boy, nothing more than a boy. My da was a big man too. I remember his hands were huge and always covered in hard, flaky skin that would crack and bleed in the winter. Served the bastard right.”

  Gisbourne had no idea any of this had happened in his new sergeant's past, but it didn't surprise him in the least. His head nodded and he forced himself to sit up straighter to avoid drifting off into a comfortable sleep as Matt went on.

  “I took a beating a few times, aye... got a few black eyes and my ears...” He rubbed the side of his head and Gisbourne noticed for the first time that, underneath Matt's poker-straight dirty-blonde hair, his ears were huge; thick and puffy in a way that looked almost obscene to the king's man who suppressed a shudder and hid his distaste by sipping his weak drink.

  “But Philip took the worst of it. He grew big and strong and eventually, one night when my da came home drunk and tried to use his fists, Philip was too fast.”

  Matt's eyes lit-up gleefully, remembering that night, re-living it as if it were only yesterday. “Smashed da's nose he did. Blood everywhere!” His voice dropped and he looked down at the floor. “I was terrified,” he admitted. “I thought my da would kill him.” There was another sigh and another long pause as Matt took a drink of the warm ale, letting the bitter liquid seep into his belly as he watched the flames flicker and dance in the hearth before them.

  “So what happened?” Gisbourne demanded, interested in spite of himself. “Did your father kill him?”

  Matt shrugged. “I don't know. I've never seen Philip since that night.” He looked up and met his captain's eyes. “I ran away out the house and slept under a bush. Didn't come back until the next morning. When I got there my da was out at work as usual and there was no sign of my brother.”

  “Did you not ask your father what'd happened?”

  “Aye, I did, once, when he'd not been paid and couldn't afford to spend the whole night in the alehouse.” Matt shook his head in consternation. “He said he'd no idea where Philip had gone and I believe he spoke the truth. I think he was so damn drunk that night that whatever happened was wiped from his memory. Wouldn't be the first time that's happened to someone – God's bollocks, it's happened to me more than once.” He grinned, as if proud of himself. “I've no idea whether Philip was killed by my da and dumped in the river or... maybe my big brother ran off same as me, only he never came back in the morning like I did...”

  Gisbourne wasn't surprised to see tears in Matt's eyes. The man was quite drunk, which seemed rather ironic to the bounty-hunter given the gist of Matt's story.

  “None of this explains how you ended up a sailor,” the king's man said, waving towards the inn-keeper for a refill of his own. Although the ale he drank had been watered-down, it was still just enough to get a man like Gisbourne – who drank alcohol infrequently – comfortably numb.

  Matt's head was nodding as sleep threatened to overtake him but his whole body seemed to jerk awake again at his captain's words and he looked blearily at Sir Guy, as if wondering who the man was.

  Eventually, with another deep draught of ale, he continued the story, the landlord watching surreptitiously from behind the bar.

  “I've never seen Philip since that night,” he repeated morosely. “For the next few years my da took out his frustrations on me. I'd lie awake in bed dreading him coming home. I don't know... it seems like he beat the shit out of me near enough every night but it can't really have been that often. And he normally used his belt rather than his fists which hurt like hell but at least it didn't break bones. Still have the scars on my legs though; don't expect they'll ever go away.”

  A log cracked and split loudly, causing Matt to jump and take another sip of ale. “Anyway, I eventually grew big enough that I could look after myself. My da must have known he'd have a fight on his hands if he continued to beat me once I was full-grown and it stopped.” He looked over at Sir Guy, his eyes surprisingly lucid for the moment. “I'd not forgotten what had happened with my big brother though; I missed him and I wondered how our lives might have turned out if we'd had a sober father instead of a sot. Anyway – the resentment built up inside me over the years... it wasn't a happy household ours, not by a long way.”

  “What happened?”

  The flare of lucidity dimmed in Matt's eyes as he retreated back into himself again, the firelight casting a ruddy glow on his dour face. “My da came home one night, in a foul mood. He must have lost money at dice or something; whatever it was, he came in shouting and hauled me out the bed before trying to throttle me for not clearing away my dinner plate or some stupid thing.” His voice became hard and his eyes blazed as he remembered that night.

  “For the first time in my life, I defended myself. I wasn't a little boy any more, I was almost the same size as I am now. I hit him. And I hit him again, and again. When he fell on the floor, covering his head in his hands – just like I'd done as a child – it made me mad.” He growled in satisfaction. “I beat him senseless – there was blood all ove
r the room – then I took what money he had on him, or hidden in the strongbox under our bed, along with his dagger and what little food there was in the house. And I left. I've never been back.”

  Gisbourne was getting tired himself by now, his head beginning to slump onto his chest, but the story was obviously nearing its conclusion and he wanted to hear it.

  “You found a job on some ship then?”

  “Eventually,” Matt agreed. “Although I had to scratch a living for a few months – stealing money and food just to survive. Sleeping rough in various towns, trying to avoid the guards... Then I came to Hull and, by luck or by chance, got caught trying to steal the purse from a sailor. Older man, from some freezing country away up to the north – Norway or that. He saw I was starving and desperate and was kind enough to get his captain to find a place on their ship for me. I sailed with them for nearly two years, learned my trade and then moved from ship to ship wherever the work took me... Got fed up with it eventually though, it was a hard life.”

  Gisbourne gestured impatiently for him to continue.

  “Got into a fight in a tavern in Coatham one day. Arsehole tried to cheat me at dice and I stabbed him with my dagger. The same dagger I took from my da.” His hand patted his hip, feeling the reassuring bulk of the weapon safely tucked away. “I had to escape from the law, so it was back to hiding and moving from town to town, making a living where I could. I did a lot of bad things then.”

  He shrugged as if he'd only done what was necessary.

  “Wound up in Barnsdale and found Adam Bell and his gang. They took me in and looked after me. Had some good times with Adam until that whoreson Robin Hood turned up and took over the place.” He tried to empty the remainder of his drink into his mouth but most of it spilled down his chin and into his tunic although he didn't seem to notice. Blearily, he got to his feet and shouted for the inn-keeper to show him to the room they'd paid for.

  As the man half-led, half-carried Matt along the gloomy corridor the former-outlaw mumbled to himself. “Bastard Hood. I'll see him dead one day, I swear it!”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “They're home!” Young Gareth ran into camp, eyes shining and a huge grin on his narrow face. “They're back!”

  “Who's back?” Stephen, the former Hospitaller sergeant-at-arms demanded, buckling on his sword-belt which he'd grabbed from beside his pallet as soon as he heard the skinny youngster from Wrangbrook tearing through the slowly thickening spring foliage towards them. The rest of the men that were around the camp that day followed his lead, grabbing weapons and strapping on whatever armour they owned, ready for whatever danger approached.

  “Robin and John,” Gareth shouted, barely panting despite his mad dash from his lookout post high in a Scots pine. “Although they're dressed like friars,” he reported, a puzzled look on his face. “Even got their heads shaved like friars. Never seen John without his beard.”

  Will Scarlet kicked earth over the camp-fire to extinguish it and placed a wooden board on top to disperse the tell-tale smoke over a wider area so it wouldn't give away their position so obviously. He ran forward to stare at Gareth, hope flaring within him.

  “Friars? Have you been on the drink again?” he demanded. “Are you sure it's Robin and John and not someone else? Like Gisbourne?”

  Gareth shook his head, angry at Will's suggestion he was too drunk to know what some of his best friends looked like. “It's them Scarlet, and I think Allan's with them. I've not drank any more than the rest of you this morning. You were pretty legless yourself last night too, so don't act as if you're better than me you sour-faced c–”

  “Enough of this,” Stephen growled, stepping between the two men before Scarlet could do anything. “Maybe it's them, and maybe it's not. The fact they're heading this way suggests they know where our camp is, so I'm inclined to believe it is them. It was Robin himself that suggested we come here to Selby after all. You,” he nodded at Gareth. “Good work warning us of their approach, lad, whoever it turns out to be – at least we'll meet them with sword in hand rather than lying on our backs on the grass. Now get back to your post in case anyone else is behind them.” He patted the young man on his shoulder encouragingly and was rewarded with a steely nod of gratitude before Gareth sprinted off into the trees again.

  Will looked somewhat sheepish at the Hospitaller's command of the situation since he'd done nothing other than irritate the lookout. He nodded his thanks to Stephen then turned and addressed the men. “Archers, take your positions in the trees. The rest of you get behind me in a semi-circle with your weapons drawn. Whoever these men are, they'll not find us sitting on our arses – we'll be ready for whatever they're bringing us.”

  A nervous silence came over the men but no-one appeared. The birds continued to sing and forage amongst the previous year's fallen leaves, but as the men watched the trees in the direction Gareth had said the travellers were coming from there was no sign of anyone approaching.

  Will, string fitted to his longbow, fingered the goose-feathers of his arrow and, as time dragged by he cursed to himself, wishing something would happen.

  “Where are they?” The voice belonged to Arthur, the stocky young man with hardly any teeth left despite his tender years, but Will couldn't see him to offer an angry rebuke, resorting instead to a furious hiss he hoped would discourage any further lack of discipline from the men.

  At last, just as the sun reached its highest point in the sky, casting a wan yellow glow on the greenery that surrounded them, voices filtered through the trees towards them and Will nocked the arrow to his bowstring, happy in the knowledge the rest of the men would also be preparing themselves for whatever happened next. Or whoever...

  “God be praised, it is them,” Edmond said as Little John's great booming voice echoed around the forest and Robin's unmistakeable laugh followed.

  “Shut your fucking mouth and keep your weapon at the ready!” Scarlet commanded in a low voice, his face flushing crimson, and Edmond nodded guiltily.

  Then, as if they hadn't a care in the world, Robin, John and Allan-a-Dale wandered, grinning, into the clearing and looked around at the vast array of weaponry that met them.

  “Lads, is that any way to welcome us home?” Robin laughed, and Will, forgetting his own demand for discipline, ran forward to embrace his friends.

  * * *

  Surprisingly, Helen didn't come after Marjorie to avenge her humiliation at the older girl's hands. In fact, Helen and her friends gave Robin's sister a wide berth whenever their paths happened to cross.

  Marjorie felt – perhaps stupidly – guilty about what she'd done to the girl. Yes, she might have deserved to be taken down a peg or two, but the pained look on her face when Marjorie had kicked her to the ground still played on her mind. She felt some empathy with the girl; harsh bereavement was a common factor in both their young lives and it affected people in different ways.

  Before her mother died Helen had been quite a popular girl and, although she'd tossed the odd insult Marjorie's way, well, so had almost every other girl in the village – it was just what children did and, although it had been hurtful, Marjorie knew now that it had all helped make her who she was. It had all strengthened her and was now contributing to her drive to break out of the role of weakling that seemed to have been assigned to her by God and everyone in Wakefield. Even her parents who doted on her.

  Eventually, she'd had enough of the sullen looks and crossed the dusty street one morning when she'd spotted Helen walking on her own, on some errand or other.

  “Wait.”

  “What do you want? We've left you alone, just like you wanted.” Helen's bottom lip thrust out and her fists clenched, as if preparing for another physical altercation and Marjorie spoke fast to reassure the girl.

  “Look, I'm sorry I hit you. You were being horrible and when you got into my face I just wanted to defend myself and keep you away from me. Truly, I'm sorry. I should have just ignored you.”

  Helen looked a
t her warily, hands still balled into fists, not really sure how to react. She knew herself she'd deserved to be beaten; she'd been mean to the other girl for no reason. Yet here was the lass she'd been tormenting, apologising for standing up to her.

  Marjorie smiled, apparently sincerely, and Helen looked ashamed. She was bigger than this girl, which was one reason why she'd picked on her. Smaller people were usually easy targets; didn't normally fight back.

  “No, I'm sorry,” she said. “Everyone knows why you're small. I was being a bitch and I got what I deserved. If someone spoke to me like that I'd have beaten them bloody and... well, you had that wooden sword so I was glad you let me go.” Her eyes dropped to Marjorie's midriff, looking to see if the practice weapon was concealed again and this was all just the prelude to a thrashing.

  “I've got it, aye,” Marjorie smiled in reply to the unspoken question. “I carry it with me all the time now, so it becomes second nature.”

  Helen stiffened almost imperceptibly as the girl pulled out the weapon; short, with many nicks in the dull edge but sturdy and dangerous looking. Her eyes widened at the freshly oiled wood which Marjorie was obviously proud of.

  “Could... could you teach me how to use one?”

  Marjorie hesitated. Fighting was her thing. She didn't want to let another girl – especially one already bigger than her despite being four years her junior – share it with her. Then she remembered something Matilda had told her, a piece of wisdom that apparently originated with Will Scaflock: “If you truly want to master something, teach it.”

  From then on, Marjorie had a new sparring partner for those times Matilda was busy with little Arthur or with her work in the fletcher's. She and Helen became friends, finding they had much in common other than the fact they'd both suffered painful losses. The younger girl came to look up to Marjorie, impressed by her natural skill with the wooden sword and her dedication to improve herself despite the limitations of her body. Soon, other local girls were joining in with the sparring and training sessions. None took it as seriously as Marjorie, but all seemed to enjoy it and all seemed happy to look to her for instruction.