Rise of the Wolf (The Forest Lord Book 3)

by Steven A McKay

  They watched the other men for a while, drunk already, most of them. They had no need for lookouts any more, being free men, so the celebration of liberty was in full swing. Even the Hospitaller was half-pissed and deep in animated, but still friendly – so far – conversation with young Edmond the tanner.

  Tuck, although he loved to eat and drink, never allowed himself to take so much that he lost control of his senses – Osferth's slipping dwale into his ale excepted. He'd learned his lesson when he was younger and now, although he still enjoyed a skinful, always stopped before he became too drunk to walk in a straight line.

  Robin generally did the same – a good trait in a leader, Tuck thought.

  Sometimes, though, it didn't hurt to let yourself go...

  “Here.” The friar handed a wine-skin to his captain. “Drink. Lose yourself for a while.”

  Robin took the drink but simply held it, unopened, in his lap as they watched the rest of the men. They'd finally begun to strike up a song or two, although they sorely lacked direction and a sweet, skilled, tuneful voice to lead them.

  He pulled out the stopper and took a long pull, the wine burning in his chest pleasantly and he lifted the skin again, swallowing almost half the contents in one draught.

  “You've lost a lot in the past couple of years,” Tuck stated, his voice soft yet still audible over the carousing and Robin barely nodded in reply.

  “Perhaps more than any of us,” the friar continued. “The men that have died: Wilfred, Sir Richard, Allan... they were all our friends but... you also lost your childhood friend Much. It hurts, doesn't it?”

  Robin nodded and took another drink from the wine-skin. “Harry Half-Hand died because of me,” he muttered, remembering an event from when he'd first become an outlaw and, inexperienced, hadn't followed orders. “But all those who've died since are on my conscience too, since I was supposed to be their leader. I was supposed to keep them safe but I didn't. All dead. They should be celebrating their freedom like the rest of us tonight.”

  Tuck said nothing for a while, knowing Robin – despite his silence – wasn't finished yet.

  “They're going to hang Matt.”

  “And you'll be there to see it,” the friar replied.

  “Aye, I'll be there,” Robin growled. “I want to see that bastard die in agony, pissing and shitting himself as he goes.”

  Tuck nodded. “I understand. I too want to see justice for Much and Allan. But...”

  Robin glanced at the friar. “But what?”

  “Look at them,” Tuck said, smiling and waving a hand at the happy former outlaws before them.

  Robin shrugged, the wine already making his head foggy. “What about them?”

  “They're happy. They are finally free.” The clergyman grasped Robin's arm in a powerful grip. “You should be happy. You can watch Arthur grow up and be with Matilda.”

  “Are you saying I should forget Matt Groves?” Robin demanded. “Even if I could – the rest of the men won't. They all want to come to Nottingham with me to see the bastard hang. And so they should, after what he's done.”

  Tuck shook his head, the flushed cheeks of his young friend betraying an unusual level of inebriation and he knew he had to step lightly.

  “No, I'm not suggesting you forget – or forgive – Matt. I think we should all go to his hanging.”

  Robin eyed the friar suspiciously. The expected sermon wasn't going quite as he'd expected.

  “It would be wrong to celebrate his death,” Tuck said. “But... I see no harm in celebrating a new beginning.”

  Although he was becoming bleary-eyed from both lack of sleep and strong wine Robin understood the friar's point. It made perfect sense – a celebration of life in death... After all, hadn't this whole journey started in the same way, in that Mayday celebration of two years earlier?

  “You're a genius, Tuck,” the young man grinned. “But, in all the joy at our freedom we've forgotten you, haven't we? The sheriff's pardons are secular and no doubt won't be honoured by Prior de Monte Martini, the little red-faced prick. Where will you go now?” He stood up, shaking his head somewhat blearily and held out a hand to his portly friend who grasped it to lever himself up from the fallen log.

  “Don't worry about me,” Tuck smiled. “Just enjoy the night. You're free!”

  Robin gripped him by the shoulder and they walked towards the centre of camp where the other men had started a raucous sing-along. “So are you,” he said. “And I think I know where you can hide from Prior de Martini, at least for a while. You said you brought the relic back from Lewes didn't you..?”

  For the first time ever the group celebrated long and loud and without fear of imprisonment or death, their joyful voices splitting the night air and carrying on the wind across the Ouse even to Selby, where the villagers looked fearfully across the fields and wondered what demons were abroad that night.

  They were free!

  * * *

  The next day those who wished it travelled to Nottingham with Robin. They passed through Wakefield again, where Robin spoke to Patrick and told him Much's killer was going to be hanged should any of the villagers wish to come with them to see justice done.

  Of course, the vast majority of the local people couldn't just take days off work and Much's family were all dead so, in the end, only Patrick travelled with them, along with Will Scarlet's daughter, Beth and, of course, Marjorie.

  Robin's sister's dream of owning a crossbow had finally come true – she carried the sleek black Italian-made weapon that had belonged to Gisbourne although, when he asked her how she'd managed to steal it from the Raven's corpse she just shrugged and smiled. The girls she'd been training had all been hugely impressed by her part in the fight with the infamous bounty hunter, as, indeed had all of the adults in Wakefield. Robin too was extremely proud of his sister, grown into a strong, vibrant young woman.

  “You fought well,” he told her as they walked.

  “Aye,” she nodded, pleased at the praise, and at her new-found status in the village. “Just goes to show – women aren't only good for cooking and mending clothes.”

  “Oh, I already knew that,” Robin laughed. “The wife never lets me forget it.”

  For a time they walked together in silence, then Marjorie grinned up at him.

  “You know, for a while I wanted to be like you. But now... I'm happy just to be me.”

  Robin returned her smile although he had no idea of her long journey over the past few months. Still, he could see by the way she carried herself that she'd truly come of age and was at peace with the world.

  That was all anyone could ask for in life.

  Matilda also came on their journey south, of course, and brought little Arthur with her. She wasn't sure about the idea of the boy seeing someone die on the gallows, Robin knew, but he felt that it was something their son should witness. Life was hard, and it often had a way of repaying in kind those who treated others badly.

  Arthur should see Much's murderer pay for his crimes.

  Will brought Beth simply because he'd missed her terribly all throughout his years as a wolf's head and wanted to spend as much time with her as possible now he was a free man.

  Not all of the outlaws had decided to go to Nottingham for the hanging though; some of them still couldn't believe the sheriff had granted them their freedom and didn't want to take a chance walking into the city where de Faucumberg could imprison or kill them if he decided to double-cross them. Others were so overjoyed at their pardons that they couldn't wait to see their families again and restart their lives with the welcome fortune they'd managed to gather as part of Robin's gang.

  The likes of Edmond and Stephen had no warm welcome or loving family awaiting them in their home-towns so they went along with the others because there was nothing better to do, although neither man had any particular, personal hatred for Matt, having joined the outlaws after the dour man had left and gone to join the Raven.

  It was a merry party, th
en, that made their way along the main road to the big city. They'd brought plenty of fresh meat, eggs, fish, cheese, bread and, of course, ale for the trip, all bought that day in Wakefield because they understood they'd have to spend more than one night camping out as they were all on foot. It wasn't an issue though – Robin knew the sheriff didn't plan on hanging Groves for a couple of days and it would be fun to spend time with friends and family, out in the open for once, without having to skulk in the trees as wolf's heads, fearful of discovery and capture or death.

  That journey was the happiest time of Robin's entire life.

  The weather wasn't great, raining quite heavily for much of the trip, but that gave Robin a chance to lift his little son who was still not two years-old and carry him in his strong arms, snuggled in under a waterproof sheep-skin that kept the worst of the weather off the pair of them.

  Beth ran on ahead, laughing and skipping in the rain, splashing in the puddles that collected in the divots and pot-holes that liberally dotted the ancient Roman road, while Will, half-heartedly, demanded that she keep dry or catch a chill.

  Everyone was, understandably, in high spirits and, when the thunder-heads passed and night began to fall they were glad to stop and set up camp in a clearing not far from the main road, surrounded by beech, yew and oak trees which felt just like home to the men who'd spent most of the recent years of their lives in just such a place.

  Once a fire had been kindled and the smells of meat and fish cooking on spits above it filled the air, everyone felt truly blessed by God. And that was before they'd even broached the cask of newly-brewed ale portly Aexander Gilbert, landlord of Wakefield's tavern, had given them for the trip south.

  It was the best meal Robin had ever eaten. Matilda sat on the grass beside him, laughing and cuddling into him as the travellers told ghost stories and bickered good-naturedly among themselves while Arthur sat on his knee, taking little pieces of cooked meat from his plate and chewing it contentedly, laughing in a wonderfully endearing way whenever he thought someone was being silly.

  The young archer looked around at his friends and lifted his ale mug in silent thanks to the Magdalene who he'd prayed to ever since he'd become an outlaw. She too had been seen as an outcast, looked down on by the authorities, and so she'd seemed like the ideal patron for a wolf's head. He grinned as Will aimed a ferocious verbal barb at Little John whose mouth dropped open in dismay, the expression looking hilarious on the giant's face which bore a thick brown beard again.

  He truly was blessed to have friends like these – the Magdalene had watched over him well these past two years.

  “It's getting late.” His wife's words broke into his comfortable reverie and he glanced at her, eyes sparkling in the orange firelight. “Let's bed down for the night. Arthur is about ready to go over anyway...”

  She smiled, flicking her tongue over her teeth impishly and Robin felt a small thrill run through him.

  “Good idea,” he replied, standing up, cradling the dozing toddler in his left arm and using his other hand to help Matilda up.

  There were ribald comments shouted after them – which they pointedly ignored – as they found a spot to sleep in for the night that was just far enough from the fire to hide them from watching eyes yet close enough to offer protection against any hungry animals, although wolves hadn't been seen in northern England for decades.

  Arthur was soon asleep and, as they made love under the stars Robin allowed himself to become lost in the moment. They climaxed at the same time, holding each other tightly and stifling their joyful gasps as the happy feast carried on behind them.

  After all the heartache and betrayal and death of the past two years, Robin was finally at peace.

  It felt good to be alive.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “Time to die.”

  Robin stood in the cell that held Matt Groves, wearing the blue livery of Sheriff de Faucumberg although he retained his own weapons and leather gambeson – the same one with the patched up hole that he'd been given when he'd first joined the outlaws.

  Although he wasn't due to become one of the sheriff's staff for another week – he'd specifically asked for that time so he could spend it with his family back in Wakefield – he wanted to be here for this, so, with de Faucumberg's blessing, he'd borrowed one of the guard's uniforms and, along with a couple of burly soldiers almost as big as he was, he walked into Matt's cell to take him to the gallows that stood outside the city walls.

  The sight of hanged criminals on the road into Nottingham was supposed to scare potential law-breakers onto the straight and narrow path of the lawful but Robin didn't think it really worked. Certainly, it had never stopped him from robbing rich clergymen. Still, it was as good a place for justice as any other.

  “Get up, Groves.” He looked down dispassionately at his former gang-member who returned his gaze from wide, frightened eyes. Matt didn't want to die.

  Robin shrugged and turned to the soldiers behind him. “Lift him.”

  The guardsmen moved to drag Matt up from the floor. He struggled but the bigger of the two soldiers punched him full in the mouth with a gauntleted fist and it was enough to make the prisoner more pliable. One of them squeezed his cheeks and the other poured a bitter, acrid liquid into his mouth. Unwatered wine, to stop the prisoner from causing trouble on the way to their destination.

  They led him – half walking and half dragging – out of the grim, dank cell and along the corridor behind their new superior officer.

  When they reached the courtyard there was a wagon with a wooden cage and the guards dragged the wild-eyed Groves up a ramp and threw him into it, their hard, threatening stares enough to stop him trying to escape or even protest at the humiliating captivity.

  Penned like an animal on its way to the Shambles for slaughter.

  Robin mounted a warhorse which wore simple barding in the same blue with red piping livery as he wore himself and nodded at the cart driver. “Move on – to Gallows Hill.”

  The wagon rumbled out of the castle grounds and into the city, heading north-east towards the carter gate. The cobbled streets weren't lined with cheering people as they would have been for a high profile hanging – most of them had never heard of Matt Groves – but there were still plenty of citizens around, either with nothing better to do than watch the prisoner's last, lonely journey or simply because they wanted to see a criminal meeting well-deserved justice.

  Life was cheap for the lower-classes in Nottingham; the locals were just glad it was someone else being taken off to hang while they and their families lived another day.

  Robin rode at the side of the slow-moving wagon. He was still no great horseman but was starting to become more comfortable when mounted; he no longer felt his thighs burning after a short distance and didn't expect his horse to turn and bite him whenever he offered it direction.

  Matt tried to talk to him; to plead with him for his freedom, or at least for a lesser sentence than the death penalty. It was out of Robin's hands – the sheriff was the law in Nottingham, even if he had granted Robin more than one favour lately – but he had no desire to help the sour-faced, hateful old bastard Groves anyway. So he ignored the man, now desperately trying to recall times when he and Robin had shared moments of friendship back in Barnsdale.

  Those moments were almost non-existent though. The only time Robin had felt like Matt was becoming close to him had been an act; a ruse to draw him and Much into the forests where, ultimately, Sir Guy and his men had ambushed them. Much had died that day, with the Raven's crossbow bolt in his chest and Matt's sword in his stomach.

  Robin held his peace grimly as the wagon trundled on through the streets and out the Carter Gate into the open countryside where Gallows Hill could be seen in the near-distance.

  He felt calm and almost emotionless. Even the memories of Much or Allan's bloodied bodies weren't enough to shake him on that sombre journey.

  It didn't take very long to reach the place of executio
n. The gallows stood on the summit of Mansfield Road, close to a rickety old windmill. When the horses were reined in and the cart drew to a halt Matt became silent at the sight of the sinister wooden structure that stood a short distance away.

  The gallows had been built with huge, thick timbers and its simple design spoke of cold, merciless efficiency. Matt had seen many such constructions in his life; indeed he'd witnessed them being put to use on a number of occasions. He'd always enjoyed the sight of a man being hanged, especially when the executioner wasn't very good at his job and had to swing on the victim's legs or even climb onto their shoulders to finish the job.

  His arms and legs tingled with pins-and-needles and he couldn't stand when the pair of burly guardsmen dismounted and came to take him up the stairs to the platform. They knew their jobs though, and had seen this reaction before when men became so terrified that their limbs wouldn't work, so they unlocked the cage door and simply dragged him, feet-first, out of the cart, hauling him upright before his head cracked off the road below.

  Robin watched dispassionately as his despised enemy stood shakily, eyes fixed on the gallows. The guards gave him a moment to regain his equilibrium then, grasping an arm each, hauled Groves up the stairs and onto the platform which was badly discoloured despite the cleaning it received after every execution. Some stains could never be washed off, no matter how much water and lye soap was used.

  Looking out over the crowd that had gathered for the day's grisly entertainment Robin spotted Matilda with Marjorie, John, Will and the rest of their friends clustered around, watching in silence as the prisoner was made to stand, head bowed to hide his fear, beneath the crossbar of the gallows, just in front of the noose which swayed almost imperceptibly in the warm westerly breeze.

  Robin almost wished he hadn't asked the sheriff if he could preside over this now that he saw the size of the audience; of course he had become accustomed to addressing the men in his gang, but those were his friends and weren't that great in number. There must have been at least a hundred people – strangers – gathered there that day though. People with no personal axe to grind with Groves but also with no work to go to for whatever reason, so they'd used their free time to come along and watch another criminal get his comeuppance.