“He'll never be a fighter,” Stephen muttered to Robin, watching as Gareth shuffled off, holding his back like an old man. “He's just not made for it.”
Robin remained silent for a while. The young man was a valued member of the gang but he wasn't really much use for anything other than as a lookout or a messenger. His youth – he was still only eighteen after all – and skinny frame, meant he was a good, fast runner over long distances but... with the amount of ale the lad had started drinking recently he'd begun to thicken around the midriff and simply wasn't as fit as he should be.
Although they couldn't afford passengers in their group, Gareth's place would always be safe – by rescuing Friar Tuck from the freezing waters of the Don the previous year, saving the clergyman's life in the process, Gareth would always be looked upon gratefully by the men who had all counted Tuck as a great friend.
And yet, Gareth had to watch as the likes of Edmond, and now Piers, joined the group and surpassed him easily when it came to fighting and hunting and general usefulness about the camp. Held back by a body that had never recovered completely from the effects of malnutrition in childhood, Gareth would never be as valued a member of the gang as someone like the old Hospitaller or even Arthur, the stocky, toothless young man from Bichill.
Robin was sure all of that explained Gareth's excessive drinking over the past few months but... it wasn't up to him what the man drank, or how much. As long as it didn't cause them any harm, or bring danger upon them, Gareth could do what he wanted, just like all of them.
“What about the rest of them?” Robin asked, looking around at the other men training. “How would they fare if, say, a similar number of Hospitaller sergeants were to attack us?”
Stephen took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, looking at each man and calculating their potential in such a confrontation. He nodded at last. “Aye, they'd do alright. I'm not saying they'd win,” he qualified his optimistic assessment, “but they'd hold their own, I'm sure.”
Robin grinned. “Good. There's not much chance we'll be attacked by such a force, but if we're strong enough for that, we should have little to fear from the likes of the sheriff's soldiers or even Gisbourne's better-trained men.” He clapped the sergeant-at-arms on the back gratefully. “You've been a fine addition to our group, Stephen, I'm glad to have you here.”
Stephen returned the smile, happy to be appreciated, but his eyes were hard as he contemplated the circumstances that had brought him there. Betrayed by his own Order after a life of faithful service... it still rankled and always would, he knew.
Suddenly there was a whistle from the undergrowth to the south-west and the two men shared a wide-eyed glance for just a moment before racing to collect their weapons. “To arms!” Robin roared, buckling on his sword-belt and bending his bow between his legs to fit the hemp string to it. “Get your weapons.”
They all knew what such a whistle meant – one of the lookouts was approaching with news of possible danger. Judging from the direction the sound had come from, it was Allan-a-Dale who made his way hurriedly towards the camp and Robin wondered what was afoot. Let it be Gisbourne, he prayed, with just a few men so we can take him out once and for all.
It couldn't be the king's man, though, Robin knew that was just wishful thinking. The outlaws had a simple but effective system: one whistle meant someone unknown was nearby but not, from appearances, much of a threat. Still, it was always good to be prepared so Robin continued to berate the men in hushed tones for not moving fast enough while Little John and Will marshalled them all into pre-determined places hidden within the foliage or, in some cases, up in the branches of the trees which now wore their almost full summer greenery and – after some judicious pruning – afforded a decent place to conceal a few longbowmen.
Robin himself stood alone, in the centre of the camp waiting to hear from the lookout, but his bow was in his left hand, ready just in case, as Allan jogged into camp, his eyes looking about the small clearing, glad to find everyone in position thanks to his warning.
“What's up?”
“A single traveller, a man, ran into the trees just west of my position,” the lookout reported. “He was blowing hard – looked fit to drop so someone must be after him. He's got a longbow, and looks sturdy enough to be able to use it.”
“Recognize him?”
Allan shook his head. “Never seen him before. He was looking about him though, even up into the trees, as if he knew I – or someone at least – was up there watching.”
Robin raised his voice so the hidden men could hear him clearly. “Any ideas anyone? A single bowman coming from the direction of Selby? Possibly knows we're camped about here? Piers?”
The clerk from Nottingham had come to them in similar fashion, although it had been purely by accident Allan had found him that day and brought him back to Robin and the rest. Maybe this was someone looking to do the same?
“Nothing to do with me,” Piers shouted back, his surprisingly deep voice carrying easily from where he crouched behind a holly bush. “I told my family I was going to hide in the forest but I didn't even know myself whereabouts. No-one could have followed my trail all this time later.”
“I watched for signs of anyone following him,” Allan said, before Robin could even ask. “Couldn't see anyone, but I'm sure he was fleeing from something.”
“Or to something....” Robin mused. “Right,” decisively, “Allan, swap places with Gareth. Gareth, you head back to the lookout post and watch for signs of this lad's pursuers; we don't want to find ourselves discovered by an army.”
Gareth nodded and ran to collect his belongings – short sword, a hunk of bread and a skin of ale which he furtively concealed inside his cloak before hurrying off to take up his post.
“Stephen, Scarlet – you two want to come with me?” Robin asked.
It was essentially an order from the outlaw captain, but he held his friends in such high regard that he often framed his orders as questions rather than statements. Of course, Will and the Hospitaller gladly came forward to go with him to find this interloper in their forest.
“Hold your positions,” he told the rest of the men. “John, you know what to do.”
There was a shouted, “Aye,” from the big man who followed it with a, “good luck!” as the three outlaws headed into the trees stealthily, weapons at the ready, curious to see who this exhausted archer might be.
* * *
There was a knock at the door and it opened, letting in the orange glow of sunset.
“Matilda, nice to see you, lass.” John Hood smiled and gestured at one of the empty chairs. “Come and join us,” he said. “We're playing draughts.”
Robin's wife shook her head, looking down at the checkered board to see Martha was beating John quite soundly. “I just came to see if you fancied going for a walk.”
Marjorie looked up. “Nah. Don't really feel like it tonight.” She slumped in her seat, staring at the game board as if she was planning her tactics to defeat the eventual winner.
“Go on,” Martha muttered to her daughter although her eyes never left the little wooden game pieces. “It'll do you good to get some fresh air.”
“I've already had a walk today,” the girl said, meeting Matilda's eyes with a knowing look. “My legs are tired.”
“Oh. Fair enough then. I'll get off home and get back to sorting those feathers. My da got another order from a merchant in another town,” she explained to John who was listening intently. “Apparently our good work on the 'eagle' feather arrows has got around – we've got enough work to last us well into winter. Farewell then.”
She turned to go but Martha finally looked up then, her eyes damp from the smoke and gloom inside the house. “Wait a moment,” she said then turned to address her fifteen year-old daughter.
“What's wrong with you now?”
Marjorie shrugged and Martha wanted nothing more than to reach out and take the girl into her arms. It would be a mistake to do so she
knew, so she remained seated and crossed her hands on the table before her.
“You've been brooding for days now. Are you with child?”
Marjorie looked up, shocked, and shook her head. “No, for sure I'm not. What d'you mean asking me that?”
“I'll just be off then,” Matilda muttered, making a grab for the door latch, but Martha glared at her.
“You can just wait there. You're bound up in all this and it's time we had it out.”
“Had what out?”
“We know you've been learning to fight,” Martha replied. “Don't we?”
John nodded, the expression on his face making it clear he would like to be elsewhere right then.
“And we know you've been out hunting. Apparently you've been doing well, at the fighting at least. Isn't that right?”
Matilda nodded. “She's got the same natural skill as her brother. One of you two must have it in your blood.”
“How do you know about it?” Marjorie demanded. “It was supposed to be a secret.”
“We're not stupid, lass,” her father smiled. “It was obvious you were doing something when you started eating more and putting some weight on. We're proud of you. Happy that you've found something worthwhile to do.”
Marjorie returned the smile fondly but her face dropped.
“Spit it out then,” Martha said. “What's wrong?”
The girl didn't reply for a while, as she gathered her thoughts and tried to make sense of her own emotions before even attempting to put things into words her parents would understand.
As if reading her mind Martha laid a hand on hers and nodded. “We'll understand, trust me. You're not the first young girl to wonder what her purpose in life is and you won't be the last.”
Finally, she spoke.
“Aye, Matilda's been teaching me how to use a sword. I've even started showing the other girls the things I've learned. It's been fun.”
“But?” John prodded, gently.
“But...” Marjorie met her father's gaze, disappointment etched in her eyes. “They're all stronger than me. I'm supposed to be their teacher, but the bigger girls could beat me easy, if they wanted to. None of them have – they're all being nice to me. But they could if they felt like it.” She leaned back in her chair, letting her arms flop to her side. “As for hunting... pfft, don't even mention that. I couldn't catch a hare if it was lying dead on the grass. It'd somehow slip through my fingers and escape.”
She sighed heavily. “I'm just not very good at anything. I've tried my best – I've put everything into sparring with Matilda but... I'm useless.”
“You're not –”
Martha laid a hand on her husband's and squeezed, silencing him.
“You're not,” he repeated, leaning back himself and looking sadly at his girl who was still little despite her years.
“Look, lass, what is it you think you're going to do with your life?” Martha refilled an empty mug from the jug of ale that sat on the table between them and passed it to her daughter, gesturing the still standing Matilda to help herself to some of the cool liquid. “You think you're going to join the lord's army and go to fight the Scots? No? Well, you plan on joining the foresters? Even though there's not a single woman amongst them? No? Well, what then?”
Marjorie sat in sullen silence, hating the eyes of her family upon her but hating it even more that she genuinely couldn't answer her mother's questions. She really didn't have any idea what she wanted to do with her life but she knew she would never be a soldier or a forester. Even if she had been stronger and fitter – women simply didn't do these things!
“What are you saying?” she demanded, meeting Martha's stare angrily. “That I've been wasting my time these past few weeks and months? That I should just give up and go back to doing nothing? Being nothing?”
“No!” Martha growled, clenching her fist and bringing it down on the table, making everyone, even Matilda jump. “No. I'm saying you need to accept who you are: a girl. A woman. And there's nothing wrong with that. Is there?” She cocked an eyebrow at her husband who raised his hands defensively.
“No, nothing,” he replied. “Nothing at all – women are great. I think I'll go and milk the cow.” He got his feet and hastily made his way out the front door.
“See?”
Marjorie smiled at her mother's triumphant look. “Who milks cows at sunset?”
“He knows his place, just as we all do,” Martha told her. “And he knows who's the real head of this household.” She smiled again and grasped her daughter's hand, looking over at Matilda to include her in her words too.
“You've been trying to learn all these skills and that's good; you've learned a lot from it, I can see that. But, first and foremost, you're a young woman. Your place is here in the home, with me for now and, when you're older, with your own children in your own house.”
She lifted her right hand to silence any objections. “There's no shame in being a woman, lass. Just the opposite. There'd be no men in this world if it wasn't for the likes of us, right Matilda?”
Robin's wife nodded happily. “That's true,” she agreed.
Still, Marjorie looked unconvinced.
“Look, Robin and his mates might live an exciting life but where do you think they'd rather be? Every one of them? They'd rather be at home with their families – with their women. Not out there, being chased around the greenwood by the likes of the Raven and his men.”
“I know she speaks truly,” Matilda chipped in. “Robin's told me as much himself many times. It might look like an exciting life they lead but... it eats him up inside. All he wants is to be with Arthur and I...”
The three women sat in silence for a time before Marjorie eventually spoke.
“So you're saying I should just accept my lot and be a good wife and mother?”
“Is there anything more important – or as rewarding – in the whole damn world, lass?”
Matilda nodded, thinking of her own beautiful little son. “Your ma's right. I've lived as an outlaw – as a fighter. I'd rather be at home making arrows for my da and shouting at Arthur to get away from the cooking pot before he scalds himself.”
“Truly,” Martha fixed her daughter with a piercing stare. “Women make the world go round. And you're as fine a girl as there's ever been.”
Marjorie looked at her sister-in-law then back to her mother and stood up to embrace Martha, her eyes moist.
She knew now why she'd been so unhappy recently – she'd been trying to live a life that wasn't hers.
Still, she'd be the woman she wanted to be, not what everyone expected her to be...
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
James felt like he was about to pass out. His legs, particularly his thighs, ached terribly and it was an effort to keep lifting his feet as he pushed his way through the brambles and irritatingly lush foliage of the greenwood, insects, and wind-borne dandelion seeds, and god-knew-what-else flying into his eyes and gasping mouth as he went.
It was a shock, then, to realise a hooded man – and a big one at that – was standing silently in front of him, watching. The apparition wore a sword at his side and held a longbow, although neither weapon was raised threateningly.
James stopped, and let his head drop, resting his hands on his legs as his chest heaved and he tried to regain his breath without much success. Finally he managed to gasp, “In the name of Christ, I hope you're one of Robin Hood's men.”
In his peripheral vision James noticed just a flicker of movement, first on the left and then on the right and he saw two more men flanking him. One was a grim-looking soldier with unblinking green eyes, while the other wore chain mail covered by a red surcoat emblazoned with the cross of some religious order, although the young man had no idea which one.
“I can do you one better than that,” the biggest of the three said, smiling and appearing as relaxed as if he'd just met an old friend.
James returned the smile somewhat ruefully – he was a big man hims
elf and he had his longbow but in the state he was in he was hardly a threat to these hard-looking lads. “Are you Hood?”
“I am. This is Will Scarlet and our friendly Hospitaller, Stephen. Now that the introductions are out of the way, let's make this quick since you're obviously running away from someone and I don't want to find a force of soldiers appearing at your back. What's your story?”
“You're right, I am running from someone but...” He stopped, wondering how to explain himself without the whole thing sounding insane but it seemed to be impossible.
“Spit it out, man!” The one Hood had introduced as Will Scarlet growled impatiently and James hurried to tell his tale. He was here now, he'd found Hood – if the man didn't believe him after all these miles, well...
“I don't know how much time you have, but Sir Guy of Gisbourne is coming for you, and he's bringing enough men to wipe you all out.”
He expected disbelieving laughs or some other reaction from the men but they just stood, watching and waiting for him to continue.
“Your friend Friar Tuck is on his way here right now. He can't be far behind me and he's got a friend with him – a monk. Tuck doesn't know it, but his companion is working with Sir Guy. I don't know why; I saw the pair meeting in the Swan back in Horbury and tried to overhear their words as best I could but I only managed to catch some of it.”
The outlaw leader glanced at his two companions who looked unsure of James's story before he turned round and beckoned the man to follow. “Come, you can tell us the rest as we head back to our camp.”
The other two outlaws fell in behind James, who sighed in relief and began to move, trying to pick out the near-invisible trail Robin was striding along.
“If this is some trick, you'll find my blade in your back, my lad,” Will Scarlet growled into his ear but James didn't reply, trying to save what remained of his stamina for the journey to the outlaw camp and praying fervently that it wasn't far.
“How did you know where we were?” The grizzled Hospitaller asked.
“I heard Tuck's mate telling Sir Guy you were camped somewhere near Selby, so I travelled there and, when I stopped at the ale-house to rest, the woman there told me her son, Peter, was one of your gang. I told her my story and she gave me rough directions how to find you.”
Rise of the Wolf (The Forest Lord Book 3) Page 24