Wildewood Revenge

by B. A. Morton

  “Why not? I did think about keeping their heads, but after a while they do have a rare pungency. I couldn’t have the ladies thinking it was me.”

  Gerard stepped back stunned by the depravity of the man, and then as his head cleared, and his thoughts became more focused he was equally stunned by the stupidity and arrogance of the man.

  “Are you mad? Every trophy you have taken ties you to a murder which in turn ties you to the theft of the king’s treasure.”

  Guy narrowed his eyes. “I think not, Gerard, for where does all of this evidence lie?”

  “Kirk Knowe.”

  “And who does Kirk Knowe belong to?”

  Gerard flew at him then. “You son of a shrivelled toad, I’ll kill you.” He back handed him across the face and Guy’s lip burst in a spray of blood.

  Gerard shook with fury. How had he allowed this to happen? He had been well and truly outmanoeuvred and as a consequence he stood to lose everything. His heart pounded in his chest but with considerable effort he managed to control himself. He may need Guy alive yet.

  Miles and his woman were locked in Kirk Knowe. They had seen everything, the treasure and the trophies. It was now even more imperative they did not get to the king. There was no alternative. They would have to be killed. Who else knew? He cast about wildly, the men at arms had been in there, Guy’s men no doubt knew all about it. Perhaps he was the only one who did not. He spun around and delivered a crunching blow to Guy’s grinning face dispelling the grin along with his consciousness. Gerard strode from the chamber and slammed the door behind him.

  Things were beginning to unravel again at an alarming rate. He would have to move the treasure and get rid of the armour. But he had two days and Miles was going nowhere. Tonight he would lie with his boring biddable wife and tomorrow he would rewrite his future.

  * * *

  Word reached Gerard the following day, that tree felling was being undertaken in the forest at Wildewood and the Scot’s were somehow involved. It concerned Gerard that his trees were being taken without his permission, it mattered naught to him that Miles considered Wildewood and its timber to be his. Wildewood would never be his. Of more interest however, was the news that Alex Stewart’s right hand man, Angus Baird had been spotted with the Scottish outlaws.

  Today would be a good day, mused Gerard as he set off for Wildewood with a dozen men at arms. Guy was under house arrest, Miles and his whore under armed guard at Kirk Knowe, the king safe in his ignorance at Alnwick and Alex Stewart was now within grasp. What more could he ask?

  Chapter Thirty Six

  The Foresters had felled six large trees in response to John’s request for long straight timbers and their Scots minders assisted in the trimming of the ancillary branches. The giant logs were chained one at a time to the two heavy horses who dragged them back to Wildewood. It was not safe to linger in the wood to cut the beams, so the work was done within the safety of Wildewood’s walls.

  It took time however for the logs to be hauled and the horses to return for the next load and all of the men were jumpy. The return of Angus Baird however, lifted the spirits of his men and they rested together while they awaited the return of the horses. Jack Forester returned to Wildewood with the penultimate load so he could begin work on the timber immediately. He left his son Robert to bring back the last log. They had worked hard, as had the Scots, but for Jack and his son there was a sense of pride in being a part of the rebuilding of Wildewood. Under John’s guidance they hoped to create something that would last for many generations.

  The horses were weary and reluctant to head out for yet another haul. It took some effort on Robert’s part to get them out of the courtyard and into the park. Miles, keen for some fresh air after his less than fragrant discussion with Mayflower, mounted his own horse and joined Robert for the final journey. Robert allowed the horses to idle back to the forest knowing they would naturally quicken their pace on the homeward journey with the lure of fresh hay and a bucket of oats. Miles rode alongside keeping watch, but his mind was on other things. Treasure and revenge.

  The two lumbering giants alerted Robert initially to the notion something was amiss. It began with the flicking of their ears and gentle snorting through velvet flaring nostrils. Robert halted their progress and reassured the beasts with gentle words. Miles raised his hand to silence him and they paused under the shelter of the trees, harness jingling gently as the horses fidgeted. Miles strained his ears as he listened acutely; and then far in the distance he heard the sound of approaching horses, many of them, travelling at speed. He gestured to Robert to remain where he was and set off at a pace towards the felling ground. If he were not mistaken, the Scots were about to be ambushed.

  The Scots were taken by surprise, much to their chagrin. Heavily outnumbered they scattered into the trees to avoid a one-sided fight. Determined not to be deprived of his prize, Gerard set his men to root out those they could find. The soldiers pushed their horses far faster than was safe within the confines of the forest and the noise of the squealing frightened horses and the yelling of men as they bullied the beasts rang horribly through the woods.

  Angus avoided the stampeding horses with the ease of a man who lived a life in the shadows. He called to his men using the language of the forest; the call of the fox and the screech of the hawk, sounds that could only be recognised, by those who knew how to listen. It was inevitable however there would be an altercation. The Scots, who were masters at guerrilla warfare, did so love a fight.

  Miles arrived at the logging area to find a furious and bloody skirmish raging. Despite being outnumbered two to one, the Scots were letting rip with short swords and axes and some of the men at arms had already fallen, hacked to death. He yanked his horse to a sudden standstill, drew his own sword, and quickly assessed the situation.

  As he’d surmised, they were Gerard’s men and no matter how skilled the Scots were, they could not hope to win such an uneven fight. He noticed Gerard then, calmly observing the skirmish, looking for someone in particular. Miles cast his gaze across the fighting men, looking in the direction that so interested Gerard. At first he saw nothing but the clash of swords, the heaving of bodies and the spray of blood. Then he caught sight of Angus squaring up to one of Gerard’s men. Glancing quickly back at Gerard he realised Angus was Gerard’s target. He could not allow Alex’s right hand man to be taken.

  Miles had neither armour nor helmet to protect him, but he did have his padded leather jerkin and a sword that had served him well so far. He thought of Grace, of their plan and how it could all go awry if he were to fall here in the wood, but could not turn his back on the man who delivered Mayflower into his palm. He kicked his horse and charged through the melee, hacking wildly with his sword at anyone who came between him and Angus.

  The blow that unseated him and sealed his fate was in fact meant for another.

  * * *

  It was only later when those not killed outright were bound and tethered to their horses for the return journey to Ahlborett, that Gerard realised not only had he managed to capture Angus Baird, but the bloodied and unconscious scoundrel at his feet was none other than his nemesis, Miles of Wildewood.

  Gerard shook his head, baffled. How had the man managed to escape from Kirk Knowe? He had left him under armed guard. No matter, he had fallen into his lap now and he would certainly find it a challenge indeed to escape from the dungeons of Ahlborett.

  * * *

  Robert delivered the terrible news back to Wildewood, but it was John who took Grace to one side to explain how Miles had been taken. Grace found herself strangely numb. This man who she’d known for so short a time had influenced her life greatly and she was bereft at the thought he was now gone from her. She paced the room pale faced, hands twisting together as she fought to keep control of the panic rising inside her.

  “Was he alive?” she whispered.

  “Robert saw him felled from his horse and taken away. Sir Gerard would not have taken him if h
e were dead.”

  “So, he is alive and at the castle?”

  “It would seem so, my lady.”

  “Then we must rescue him.”

  “How? The castle is heavily manned and the dungeons will be guarded further.”

  She shrugged at him. “I don’t know, John, but we have to try.” She fought back fearful tears. “Ask everyone to gather in the great hall, have Martha cook for us all and we will decide what to do.”

  Three young Scottish warrior’s had fallen in the wood and their bodies were brought back to Wildewood by the Foresters’, carried reverently on the backs of the giant horses and laid temporarily to rest in the walled garden, awaiting retrieval by their kinsman. Mayflower surprised those who had gathered to pay their respects, by leading a prayer and Grace thanked the man with a weary smile.

  The mood when the household gathered was sombre. Without Miles they were adrift and anxious, fearful the fight would be brought to Wildewood. They had all volunteered to defend Wildewood when they believed they would be led by Miles, the brave knight who fought alongside the king. There was no one to lead them now and they cast furtive glances at each other. No one wanted to say out loud, what was being thought by all.

  “We must rescue Miles and Angus and any others who may still be alive,” Grace said simply. “We just need to think of a plan.”

  “If they are held in the dungeons then we have no chance. I know of no one who has come out of Ahlborett alive.”

  Grace looked at the man who’d spoken. He was one of the brothers who’d been the first to volunteer their support. She was disappointed. She’d assumed she could rely on him.

  “What of Walter de Sweethope?” asked Jack Forester “Was he not imprisoned and released on the king’s word, would he not be able to assist with a plan of the layout?”

  “And who will travel to him and bring the plan back?” said another. “The woods will be crawling with Sir Gerard’s men waiting to pick us off.”

  Grace despaired. If Miles were here he would rally them, encourage them. She had nothing to offer. She was a silly girl from another time who would get them all killed given half a chance.

  “I have knowledge of Sir Gerard’s dungeon system,” said Mayflower calmly. “In fact, I was given a guided tour quite recently.”

  Grace turned to him. “Could you draw us a plan?”

  “I fear I am no artist,” replied Mayflower, “But I understand you have a certain skill in that area. Perhaps together we can create something useful.”

  Grace could have hugged him. “So, we will have a map to follow once we are in the castle.”

  “How do you propose we gain entry to Ahlborett?” asked Robert Forester. “We are a ragtaggle band of peasants. The men at arms will laugh at us before they cut us down.”

  “We’re a force of twenty, and have horses for us all. Surely, twenty, galloping towards them will cause some reaction other than laughter?”

  John shook his head wearily and Grace saw the defeat on his face.

  She could not give up. It was not in her nature and knew if the situation was reversed Miles would not abandon her.

  “We have a plan of the dungeons, so we know where they are within the castle. We need to get someone inside to locate the prisoners and be ready to let us in when we get there. Who is allowed in the dungeons, Mayflower? Who did you see when you were given your tour?”

  Mayflower paused, “My lady, I confess, I was less concerned with those incarcerated, and more concerned about leaving. I regret I took little notice of anyone other than guards.”

  “How many?”

  “There were two at the entrance to the dungeons.”

  “Anyone else? Are they allowed visitors? How do they get their food?”

  “The food is taken in by the relatives of the captives,” said Martha. “They receive no food unless they are fed by their own, but anyone who enters will be searched, I expect.”

  “Would they search a boy?” asked Edmund. All eyes turned to him, the scrawny twelve year-old who looked younger than his years.

  “No, Edmund, I won’t allow you to put yourself at risk, it’s far too dangerous.” Grace couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to Edmund. Miles would never forgive her. She would never forgive herself.

  “The boy could do it,” said John. “No one would suspect him.”

  “And what if he should bump into Guy?”

  “Guy has a broken leg, he will not be abroad.”

  “I am not afraid.” Edmund looked at Grace. “It would be an honour to help. I can do it.”

  “Not alone, Edmund, never alone,” replied Grace.

  “I will go with him,” said a voice from beyond the gathering at the table. Belle stepped forward from the shadows. She glanced at Edmund and smiled nervously. “I’ll distract the guards, while Edmund locates Sir Miles and the others. “We can do it together.”

  Distract the guards? Grace didn’t like the sound of that. Belle was a child with the body of a woman, and she too would be in danger. Despite her foreboding, she nodded reluctantly. They were both children, but here in this place, they were all she had.

  Jack Forester spoke up again. “So, the youngsters get into the dungeon, smuggle in a knife or two, manage against all odds to release the men; what then? We are still an untrained band of peasants with no weapons to speak of and no armour to protect us from Sir Gerard’s wrath. Do you think he will run from us when he sees our army advance upon his castle?”

  Grace looked to John, catching his eye. He gave an imperceptible nod and she smiled. Turning back to the gathering, she rose to her feet and with all eyes upon her she declared.

  “We will have armour and weapons and Sir Gerard will think the army of the damned has come a calling.”

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Miles woke sprawled in the straw on the floor of the dungeon. He lay face down where he had been thrown by the guards, his cheek flattened against the filth. Dragging reluctant eyes open he viewed the cell from his horizontal position. He’d found himself in far worse and more dangerous places in his time and learned from experience it did not pay to move too quickly when regaining ones senses, you never knew who might be watching and waiting for an opportunity to strike.

  The smell from the rancid litter was foul and the straw moved with vermin and lice. It was no good, he could not lie amid the piss and shit of other men, nor could he stand anymore of the stink. He groaned and raised his head. The room swam and he paused until he regained his equilibrium. Spitting blades of straw from his mouth he rose up on hands and knees.

  “Ah wouldnae stay lang in that position, if ah were ye,” said a gravelly Scottish voice. “Some o’ these men hivn’t had a woman in years an’ they’re no choosy.”

  Miles swung his head and the grinning face of Angus Baird came in to view. He grimaced and sat himself up with his back against the support of the cold damp wall. The cell was not large and it contained at least a dozen men. The low ceiling made the space feel smaller. One wall was barred with iron work beyond which was a passage which led to the guard room. Torches lit the cell dimly, but there were no windows and no circulation of fresh air to relieve the stench.

  They were well below ground level and Miles could only guess at the thickness of the walls which enclosed them. He glanced around at his fellow captives and recognised three of Angus’s men, their faces showed evidence of battle but they were alive and watching him with interest. The others were a collection of men unknown to him. Some looked as if they had been there for some time. They were undernourished and their skin carried signs of disease and poor diet.

  “What happened?” asked Miles as he attempted to brush the fetid straw from his clothes.

  “Yer brother happened,” replied Angus.

  “Gerard?”

  “Aye. Gerard and a dozen men at arms. They knew we wir there. Caught us nappin’ ah’m afeared, but they were armed an armoured tae the hilt.”

  “I don’t remember a th
ing,” admitted Miles.

  “Ye did try tae rescue us,” grimaced Angus and his men grinned, “Unsuccessfully as it happens. Ah caught sight of ye gallopin’ tae me through the mess o’ men; how ye survived in the Holy Land is a mystery tae me, not a bloody thought as tae who was at yer flank. You’re lucky tae be alive.”

  Miles shrugged. He’d never said he was a skilled fighter, but he’d never been short on determination. “How many did you lose?”

  “Three, one o’ them was ma nephew.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Miles.

  “Tis Gerard whae’ll be sorry, “replied Angus with a grimace.

  “Do we have a plan?” Miles enquired.

  “Nah,”

  “Does Gerard?”

  “Ah expect he plans tae see us all swing.”

  Miles considered this. “Well, he won’t do that until the king has returned to London, so we have a few days grace.” He held his head in his hands. He was getting too old for all this fighting. He’d come home to Wildewood for some peace and quiet after the rigours of the crusade but it seemed since he’d returned he’d had nothing but grief. First from the girl, then Guy, and now Gerard, it was beginning to get a little repetitious.

  “Is ye head still botherin’ yer lad?” asked Angus. “Ye took an almighty blow; if it had been the blade you’d have lost yer head for sure. We thought yer were dead.”

  Miles smiled, “I’ve felt worse with the drink.”

  “Then ah suggest we maintain a state o’ readiness. When the guards come tae take us tae the scaffold we’ll make oor move.”

  Miles nodded and yawned. “Wake me when they get here.”

  He was kicked awake a short while later by the guards who dragged him to his feet and hauled him from the cell. He shot a warning glance at Angus; this was not the time to make a move.

  He tried to take note of where he was being taken but his head was forced down by the guards and when he struggled to right himself he received a blow to the belly for his trouble. Pushed forward, he stumbled when down a flight of stones steps leading further into the bowels of the earth. He tried to resist the pressure of the soldiers at his back as a sense of alarm crept through him. He’d been singled out for some purpose and he could only assume Guy was at the root of it. He took a steadying breath. Guy was a madman, he could not be anticipated in the way a normal man could. He wished, yet again, that he’d run him through when he had the chance.