“The punishment for just one of those many heinous crimes is death by hanging. Your friend Sir Richard-at-Lee has already received justice in such a fashion.” He gave a small groan and took another pull of his wine, this time almost draining the cup, perhaps hoping the effects of the alcohol would dull the pain from his wound. “What am I to do with you?”
The outlaws watched the sheriff in silence. He had a reputation for being a fair man; they could only hope he would deal with them mercifully now.
“You found the king in a particularly good mood,” the sheriff went on. “He was bored and the little episode in Wakefield – and the chase to find you – pleased him.” He shrugged in exasperation. “The king values physical prowess highly and he enjoyed the... fight with Gisbourne. When he ate lunch in Wakefield he had some of the locals, including the headman, dine with him – they informed him of Gisbourne's recent excesses; burning down houses and whatnot so, although Sir Guy was the king's own man, our highness thought justice had been served by his death. He also remembered the pair of you,” he nodded to Robin and Little John, “from your visit to London. Anyone else would be angered by your deception but again, the king found it all most amusing. So,” he waved a hand, “he told me to deal with you as I saw fit but to be merciful.”
“What does that mean?” Will growled. “A life sentence in your dungeon rather than a public hanging?”
De Faucumberg smiled. “Perhaps,” he began, but Robin cut in before the man could say any more.
“We have your silver arrow.”
The sheriff looked at him, mouth open since he'd been just about to speak again. He closed it, lips pressed together in a thin line. “I remember. How could I forget?”
“We have no need of it,” Robin said. “I'll bring it back to you this very day.” He held up a hand as the sheriff leaned forward in his chair eagerly, the thought of his missing wealth being returned to his near-bare coffers making his eyes sparkle.
“In return I want a pardon.”
De Faucumberg nodded impatiently, but again Robin broke in before the nobleman could speak.
“For all of us.”
There was silence then, a silence that seemed to last for a long, long time as the sheriff gazed at the wolf's head and his troublesome companions.
Robin glanced sidelong at Will, noting the man's aggressive stance. Even without a weapon the volatile Scarlet was ready to attack the blue-liveried soldiers.
Little John's face was unreadable.
Even the sheriff's guards looked unsure how this would play out; Robin could see more than one of them fidgeting nervously and he picked one to go for first should De Faucumberg order an attack.
“Fine. You win.” The sheriff glared at his clerk. “Write pardons for these two,” he waved a hand irritably at Will and John. “Scaflock and Little, I believe, yes? Yes.” The clerk quickly but neatly filled in two small pieces of parchment then took them to de Faucumberg who lifted his own pen and signed the bottom of each.
“Here,” he growled, holding them out towards the outlaws.
“What about Robin?” Will demanded, not moving towards the proffered document. “Where's his pardon? He saved your life.”
“Your loyalty is, truly, a pleasure to see,” de Faucumberg smiled, apparently sincerely. “But I have other business to attend to with him so... if you would so kind as to take these bloody pardons from me and stop asking questions you can be on your way back to your homes.”
John and Will looked at Robin and he grinned encouragingly. “Go on, what are you waiting for? This is what we've wanted – freedom! Don't worry about me, I'll see you soon. We still have his silver arrow don't we?”
The two outlaws walked forward and, still unsure of themselves, gingerly took the parchments from the sheriff, who nodded and ordered his guards to show them out.
“Our weapons?” Will wondered.
“Yes, yes, return their weapons to them,” the sheriff grunted in exasperation. “Now get out will you? I wanted to get this over with quickly.”
They followed the guard from the room, the door was closed over again, and Robin felt another pang of fear. Yes, de Faucumberg had proved himself to be – mostly – an honourable man, who'd tried to rein in the increasingly violent tendencies of the Raven, but Robin hadn't forgotten the time when the sheriff had double-crossed them. Only the timely intervention of Sir Richard-at-Lee and the Earl of Lancaster's soldiers had saved Robin and his friends that day, or the sheriff would have cut them down like animals.
So, although Sir Henry de Faucumberg appeared to be rather more honourable than many of his noble peers, the wolf's head didn't quite believe he could trust the man unquestioningly. After all, capturing Robin Hood and hanging him was always what the sheriff had wanted – it was the perfect way to send a message to any other would-be thieves and outlaws.
De Faucumberg beckoned him forward, to stand right in front of the table, and Robin wished he had his sword with him.
“You've led my men and I – not to mention Gisbourne – a merry dance these past couple of years, Hood. You appear to lead a charmed life or, perhaps I do you a disservice and you're really as skilled a leader as you are an archer. I suspect the truth lies somewhere in the middle and that makes you a formidable enemy.”
Robin remained silent but he felt beads of sweat trickle down uncomfortably from under his armpits as the sheriff stared at him.
“But you saved my life and I am grateful so... I would like to offer you a position within my own household.”
The wolf's head simply gazed up at de Faucumberg, knowing he must have imagined the man's words.
“As I say, you have proven your leadership abilities. I don't think any of my men have anything but respect for you in that regard, whatever they may feel for you personally. You and your fellows have killed rather a lot of them after all.”
“Only in self-defence – what choice did we have –”
Sir Henry raised a hand. “There's no need to go into that right now. Perhaps once I'm fully healed we can discuss that sort of thing in more depth but for now... as I say I have other duties to carry out and the dressing of my wound takes up much of my time so...? What say you, Hood? I believe you have no official experience commanding men – you don't know the way things work in a castle garrison and that sort of thing, so I can't offer you the position of my personal captain just like that. However, I will find you a job that suits your exceptional capabilities. Who knows, I might even be able to find a place for others of your group. I lost a few men in that last, ill-fated, assault Gisbourne led on your camp, although I believe some of them still live, thanks to you.”
That brought Robin back to Earth. Others of your group. Where were Stephen and Edmond and the rest of the men?
“What about the pardons for the other members of my gang?”
The clerk in the corner of the room rummaged amongst another pile of papers and lifted some in the air, showing them to the wolf's head.
“Those are blank.” The sheriff said. “Once I have their names I can fill them in and your men will be pardoned. All of them.” He raised a finger and looked seriously at Robin. “I only demand my silver arrow in return. Fair enough?”
The reality finally hit him and Robin crouched down, weeping in disbelief and happiness and sadness for all his friends who'd died before they could see this day. He didn't care what the sheriff or the clerk or the guardsmen thought of him, he was overcome by emotion and for long moments he simply stared at the stone floor, tears streaming down his face.
They'd done it. At last, they had finally earned their pardons, they would be free!
“Thank you, my lord.” He rose, drawing himself up to his full impressive height and looked at the sheriff without bothering to wipe his tear-streaked face. “I would like to speak with my wife before I accept the offer of a position in your household. Before that, though, I have one more boon to ask...”
* * *
Matt Groves wished he'd
never come back to Nottingham. He should have known how it would turn out. The fact the sheriff hated him didn't seem to matter though; he'd hoped de Faucumberg would have been so desperate for able-bodied, hard fighting men that he'd see Matt as a decent addition to his garrison.
But it hadn't turned out like that. When he'd made it back to the city from Selby the sheriff had been away with the king, so he'd made himself at home in one of the local taverns until the sheriff returned, spending what little coin he had left in his purse on a room and board for a few nights, hoping de Faucumberg wouldn't be gone too long.
When word had got around that the sheriff was back in the castle – and grievously wounded – Matt had made his way there to offer his good-wishes and support to the stricken nobleman.
Unfortunately for him, de Faucumberg had been well enough to recognise him and, in a near-delirious fury, had ordered his guards to imprison Matt until he was well enough to deal with Gisbourne's pet outlaw.
He'd languished in this shit-encrusted, vermin-infested cell for days now, with only black mouldy bread and tepid water for sustenance and he was thoroughly sick of it.
There was a noise from the end of the corridor which Matt recognised as the main entrance to the block of cells being opened and he held his breath, listening as footsteps approached. They stopped outside his cell and he got to his feet, stretching his muscles and plastering a smile on his face as the door swung open, hoping to see the sheriff or one of his lackeys come to free him at last.
One of the castle guards held a torch which burned brightly, blinding Groves momentarily as he squinted into the gloom at the two figures there, and then he found himself lying on the cold stone floor, amongst the shit and piss, his head spinning and his face aching.
“Get up you fucking arsehole.” A low, gravelly voice came to him and he raised his hands defensively but they were batted aside and someone grabbed his short hair, pulling hard until he scrambled to his feet.
When he reached an upright position again fury rose in him and he swept his right arm out in an arc, trying to land a blow on the shadowy figure that now held him by the throat.
His attempt was weak though, and he fell backwards again, his teeth rattling as another blow landed on his face. He heard a crack as the punch landed and a searing pain blurred his vision. He fell backwards into the wall, knowing his cheek had been broken. He felt weak from his captivity over the past few days but, outraged at being struck, he roared, raising his arms and running forward towards the shadowman that tormented him.
Again, a closed fist hit him, this time in the solar-plexus, and he collapsed, retching onto the already filthy cell floor. He brought up the water and slimy half-digested bread that he'd eaten earlier on, burning tears streaming from his eyes, but he forced himself to stand up once more and raised his fists to block any more attacks.
“Do you know who I am?” he found himself shouting desperately. “I'm one of Robin Hood's men. Have you never heard how he looks after his men? He'll come for you when he hears about this, you bastard!”
His attacker halted his advance and Matt took heart. “Aye, that's right, dickhead. We look after each other in Robin Hood's gang.”
He saw the next blow coming but was, again, too slow to dodge or even block it and a thunderous right hook landed on his face with a crunch of bone and cartilage and he fell backwards into the wall, blood pooling from his ruined nose.
“You look after each other?” The voice was low and filled with pure hate. “Then why did you betray Much?”
In the near-darkness Matt saw his attacker's foot coming towards him but before he could raise a hand he felt the crushing blow and he dropped, dazed and winded, onto the ground again. He didn't try to get up now; finally, he'd recognised that voice.
Robin Hood leaned down and glared into his eyes, the cowl he wore making him look distinctly sinister and wicked in the wan torchlight. “Get up and fight me like a man you old cunt. I've waited a long time for this; since I first joined the outlaws in fact. Remember? You almost broke my fingers the first time we sparred and then you knocked me into the river. Let's see how hard you are then, Groves. Let's see you break my fucking fingers now.”
He heard Hood's ragged breathing as the big wolf's head glared down at him.
“We found Allan's body after the battle. Did you kill him too?”
For a moment Groves thought about denying it, but he knew he was done for anyway. At least this would be one final barb to throw at his former leader.
“Aye, I did. He just stood there, gaping at me like a fish. It was so easy for me to skewer the stupid-looking dullard. He cried like a girl when he sank onto the grass at my feet.”
His words had the desired effect – Robin rocked back, eyes wet and filled with loathing for the man before him.
“Finish it then,” Matt growled through split, bloody lips, unnerved by his attacker's glaring silence. “Or are you still too much of a fucking woman?”
He expected Hood to rain more blows down on him but none came and he lay on his back, sucking in lungfuls of air, his entire body numb.
For a long time nothing happened. The torch the guard outside in the corridor held cast flickering orange light on the walls and Hood's breath continued to come in laboured gasps while Matt just lay on the ground, almost passing out more than once.
Then, when he'd regained his breath, the wolf's head bent down and looked directly into Matt's eyes.
“I don't need to finish it, Matt. Justice will be served, have no fear. Your master Gisbourne is dead – aye, killed by me, my wife and my little sister – and your crimes will not go unpunished. I'm the sheriff's man now... and soon enough I'll see you on gallows hill, swinging by the neck for what you did to my friends.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
It was a rather different Robin that returned to the outlaws' camp near Selby a day later, accompanied by Will and Little John. The smile was back on his handsome face and, apart from severe bruising around his knuckles he appeared to be in good health.
Of course, the lookouts had spotted the men approaching and sent word to the main camp where Stephen had gathered the men and ordered them to battle-readiness. It might have been their leader and his two lieutenants heading towards them but who knew what came at their back? It could very well be a trick of the sheriff's devising. So the former Hospitaller, careful as ever, had the men armed and ready for anything when he heard of Hood's return.
“Not the friendliest welcome I've ever had.” Robin grinned at the sergeant-at-arms who met him, grim-faced, as he strode into the camp. “But it's good to see you have the men at the ready.” He clasped Stephen's arm, grinning broadly and the man relaxed visibly, although he didn't return the grin; that wasn't his way.
“Are we safe?”
“Aye,” Robin nodded, laughing as Little John came up behind him and barged past, grabbing the shocked Stephen in a massive bear-hug that he struggled vainly to break free from.
When he was back on his feet and before he had the time to berate the giant, Will Scarlet grabbed also him and pulled him into a friendly embrace, slapping him on the back and laughing loudly. “Well met, Hospitaller. Well met.”
Robin could tell Stephen was inwardly pleased at the show of friendship, but the sergeant shoved Will away and glared at the three of them. “I take it we're not in any immediate danger? The sheriff's men aren't on their way to rout us?”
“No, they're not,” Robin shook his head, still smiling and raising his voice so the rest of the men, still hidden in the foliage, could hear. “You can come out – we have news!”
They feasted that night, after freeing the sheriff's captured soldiers to return to their homes. Little John and Will had brought fresh black loaves and a pig from the kitchen in Nottingham Castle and, with that and the late spring vegetables stored in the outlaws' larder, Tuck made a wonderful thick stew which the men washed down with large amounts of ale and even some wine the sheriff's bottler had gifted to them befo
re they'd left to return to their friends.
When Robin produced the papers that confirmed every man's pardon there had been disbelief and then deafening cheers that split the night like thunder and the young outlaw captain had cheered as loud as any of them. It was a momentous occasion. Even Stephen managed a grin, although things would be more complicated for him, since some of the Hospitallers had tried to kill him and, as far as he knew he was still outcast from the Order.
The rest of the men though, they were – at long last – free. Their young leader had often promised to win them freedom somehow and, well, now it seemed he had. It was incredible.
And yet the celebrations were tinged with more than a hint of sadness.
They wanted to return to their families, of course, but every man there now realised they'd possibly never see their companions again. They'd go back to their homes and, hopefully, take back the lives that had been stolen from them when they'd become wolf's heads, but most of them lived in different villages. Sure, they might pay one another the odd visit when they could but... it wouldn't be the same as spending long nights under the stars, with a roaring campfire, bread and meat and beer and brotherhood and music.
Music.
Robin had taken more than his own fill of ale and, although he felt a great joy in his heart to have finally – finally! – won a pardon, the lack of singing in the camp was obvious and it made him think of Allan-a-Dale.
The rest of the men didn't seem to share his melancholy, Robin noted thankfully. They ate and drank and told stories and talked about what they'd do when they returned home as rich men; the outlaws had lots of stolen gold and silver in the communal chest after all and it would make life very comfortable for each of them now.
“Cheer up – you're a free man. They all are!”
Robin looked up at the voice and smiled as he saw Friar Tuck.
“Aye, free at last,” he agreed, patting the log beside him and sipping his ale as the friar sat down. “But at what cost...?”
Rise of the Wolf (The Forest Lord Book 3) Page 30