Shadow of the Wolf

by Tim Hall

  “Master Champion,” Sir Gilbert said. “Since you have so much to say, perhaps you could inform us whose colors are those, at the far end of the west wall …”

  The lesson continued and the afternoon stretched away. Robin watched the pavilions rising, blue and yellow, on the display ground, and he felt the excitement and the nerves building. All the other squires were feeling the same, he could tell, and even Sir Gilbert was excitable as a child.

  “Listen,” Sir Gilbert said. “The herald’s horn. Another competitor arrives. Who can tell me who this is, flying the serpent and the cross? Yes, correct, Sir Stephen Coldacre, the famous crusader, and a hunting companion of the Lionheart no less …”

  It was a glorious afternoon, the skylarks pouring down their song, every blade of grass bending beneath the weight of an insect. A knight came out to exercise his war-horse, galloping up and down the lists, man and mount coated in steel, the thunder of hooves so heavy Robin thought he could feel it in the earth, even at this distance.

  “See here, yet more guests,” Sir Gilbert said. “A prize for the first of you who … Ah, no, I see I’m wrong. My eyes are not so sharp as they once were.”

  Robin looked to the road below and what he saw there caused a cold shiver at the back of his neck. Winding their way up from the river were four horsemen, but these were not earls or dukes. These were common soldiers, dressed all in black, apart from their crimson cloaks, and the image of a wolf’s head livid red against their breastplates.

  “The Sheriff’s Guard,” said Egor Towers. “What are they doing here?”

  “You know what I hear about the Sheriff,” said Richard Warbrittle. “He feeds his horse on human flesh.”

  “He flays peasants to the bone …,” said Henry Winchester. “Wears their skins as clothes.”

  Several other squires joined in, their stories increasingly lurid.

  “The man is a lunatic … declared war on the forest gods …”

  “Thinks he’s a demigod himself …”

  “Born in the wildwood … raised by wolves …”

  “Quiet down,” Sir Gilbert said. “That’s quite enough. I don’t want to hear you talking that way, even in jest. You realize, I hope, that such tales were told of the Sheriff’s predecessor, and the man before him. Each sheriff must don such legends, it seems, along with his robes of office. But such stories belong at the fireside of peasants. I don’t know the Sheriff personally, but I’m sure he deserves our respect. So then, a big day tomorrow. Get yourselves to the dining hall, eat as much as you can beg or steal, then rest well. Ah, now, here comes another banner. The double dragon. Sir Arnold of Aragon, a modest mercenary once, in the pay of the Pope, but now risen to great heights, and a paymaster himself …”

  As they walked back to the citadel Sir Gilbert went on talking. Robin wasn’t listening. He was watching the Sheriff’s soldiers. Three now stood this side of the moat, while one was waved across the drawbridge. Robin realized his jaw hurt, he was gritting his teeth so hard. The sight of those scarlet cloaks had stirred all the old anger and the heartache. The fire at the manor; Marian’s father stealing her away. Why had he done it? What part had the Sheriff played?

  “I said, what if it isn’t just a game? What if he’s got to them somehow?” This was Bones, talking away at Robin’s side. “I mean, how much does friendship count for, weighed against a prize like that? If we lose those two, we’re finished, before we even begin. What’s up with you, Loxley? Are you even listening?”

  They walked into the sump of Saddle Hill and by the time they crested the next rise the lone soldier had reemerged and all four horsemen were riding away.

  Irish and Rowly moved over to join Robin and Bones.

  “There’s something we need to tell you,” Rowly said.

  Robin snapped out of his reverie. He and Bones stopped and stared at the other pair. Irish scratched at the back of his neck. Rowly looked at the ground.

  “It’s about tomorrow,” Rowly said.

  “We … well, we’ve been talking,” Irish said. “And we’ve decided … we think, maybe, the best thing for all of us, at this stage …”

  He paused and he and Rowly turned to each other with serious expressions. But then one of them smiled and made the other laugh and then they were both laughing.

  “The look on your faces!” Irish said. “You thought we were going to do it.”

  “What kind of rats do you think we are?” Rowly said.

  “I knew it!” Bones said, slapping them both on the back. “I knew you never would. That’s what I’ve been saying to Loxley all along. Didn’t I say, Loxley, friends like us are worth more than all the gold in Rome.”

  “We were talking,” Irish said. “But only about how to wipe the grin off Tarcel’s dainty face.”

  “Yes, yes!” said Bones. “That’s it, that’s what I’ve been saying, and on that front I have a brave and splendid plan. It cannot fail. Listen, what do you think of this …?”

  He put his arms around the shoulders of Irish and Robin, and as they walked he began to outline his strategy, and soon Robin was sharing his own ideas and arguing with the others, the painful memories fading from his mind, the Sheriff’s Guard all but forgotten.

  Robin gripped his shield and his greathelm, and he waited with the other squires on the display ground. Around them the murmur of the crowd continued to swell. The spectator scaffold was almost full, noblewomen and their daughters talking beneath their hands, pressing kerchiefs to their powdered cheeks. There were people too all along the curtain walls and perched on barrels and hanging out of trees. Bones raised a hand toward a serving maid from one of the taverns. He clashed his shoulder against Robin’s.

  “Molly Shrievner is over there. No secret who she’s come to watch. Look, Loxley, she’s waving her kerchief! Go and fetch it. The luck of a pretty girl is worth a spare sword arm.”

  The noise of the spectators rose farther, then faded to whispers. Sir Bors had emerged from the east gate. Following him were two household knights, wearing their silver cloaks, their tabards embroidered with the emblem of the golden arrow.

  Sir Bors reached the spectator scaffold, climbed its steps, the terraces creaking beneath his weight. He reached the top and turned and fixed the squires with his iron gaze. At first he said nothing and the quiet around him became silence, broken only by a single sneeze from the curtain wall, and a squire dropping his greathelm and scrabbling to pick it up.

  Finally the overlord’s voice boomed. “You young men stand here today at a threshold. Before the week is out, the bravest and best among you will have embarked upon a new life, leaving your less able brothers behind.” He lifted a tabard, emblazoned with the golden arrow. “Those of you who earn this symbol will tread an extraordinary path. On campaign, at my side, you will travel to Byzantium and Baghdad and all the golden cities of the east. You will see sights you never dreamed and taste new fruits and know the satisfaction of hard and necessary work. You will endure danger and discomfort, plenty of it. But you will also know glory and reward. You will return to these shores with a name to speak loudly and with stories to tell with pride. That is the world that awaits, should you summon the strength to step across this threshold. So be quick and resolute, compete with skill and valor. Good luck.”

  Sir Bors left the scaffold, and as he walked away the noise of the crowd rose again to a hiss and then a rumble. The squires talked among themselves, huddled in their companies, and they donned their greathelms and swished their hardwood swords through the air or clashed together their shields. At Robin’s side Rowly hoisted their battle banner: winged Pegasus on a blue field. He slid the pole into a baldric at his back and snapped the clasps shut.

  Meanwhile, Sir Derrick had come forward and was striding between them all, shouting. “Remember, a knight fights with his head, just as much as with his sword. You all have war chests, so use them. If you see an opportunity to agree terms, do so. Never risk a battle with blades if it can be won with cold coin or w
arm words. Captives can be ransomed, traded, or sold, and this year even company banners can be bartered. Those companies with only four or five squires should be looking to bolster—”

  He was interrupted by the blaring of trumpets—the Master of Ceremonies had cut the tourney rope and the spectators were cheering and the squires were off and running.

  Robin and the other three headed east, then south, as they had agreed, down to the river and across the ford and into the wooded hills beyond. They climbed the steep slope and came to a halt not far from the tournament bounds. Rowly unclipped their banner and waved it three times above his head, showing the judges that this was to be their home ground.

  “Are we sure about this?” Irish said.

  “It’s the perfect tactic,” Bones said. “Go after the strongest team, before they can blink. It’s the last thing they’ll expect.”

  “There’s a reason for that,” Irish said. “It’s madness.”

  “Most companies will start cautiously, won’t they?” Bones said. “They’ll work up alliances, not take any chances. Tarcel’s lot will be different. They’ll go on the hunt straight off.”

  “But leave Rowly here on his own?” Irish said.

  “You run along,” Rowly said. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Look at him,” Bones said. “He’s a one-man fortress. And we can’t do it with less than—”

  “We talked about this,” Robin said. “We made the decision. Now we’re just wasting time. Rowly, don’t let go of that flag.”

  With that, Robin was clanking back down the slope. He heard Irish and Bones following. They made their way along a ridge above the river. Below them they saw John Pendergast and Gordon Levett and the rest of the Society of the Silver Star. When they spotted Robin and the others they moved off in the opposite direction, their starred standard snapping on its pole. In the distance rose the sound of wood clashing against steel and the cheering of the crowd announcing the first battle joined.

  “Tarcel’s troupe, it’s got to be,” Bones said. “Going for one of the weaker banners. Their territory won’t be far from here.”

  “How do you know so much about Tarcel’s tactics?” Irish said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d—”

  “Up there,” Robin said. “See them?”

  “What did I tell you!” Bones said. “And only two!”

  Above them, their armor flashing in the sun, were Robert Benhale and Ayala Baptiste, the latter carrying their black-tailed banner.

  Without a word they parted ways, Irish going straight up the slope to attack from the east, Bones circling around to the west. Robin advanced from the south, drawing his ashwood sword as he made his way through the field, thick with nettles and blackthorn. He felt conspicuous and noisy, as he always did in plate armor, his hunting instincts objecting. Crows scattered from his path, croaking. Jackdaws took wing and cackled their alarm.

  And now Baptiste had seen him. He hefted his whalebone battle-ax and charged down the slope. The distance between them shrank. Robin raised his shield and the ax came crashing down, and at the last instant Robin relaxed his shield arm to cushion the blow. The ax came down again; Robin felt the impact in his bones. He made no attempt at a counterattack; he went on meeting each strike with his shield, letting Baptiste think he was getting the better of this.

  Behind Baptiste the second skirmish flared with the singing of wood on steel, and within moments Robin thought he heard someone clatter to the ground. And then Bones and Irish were charging Baptiste from behind and their attacks were raining down and Robin’s sword too was ringing off the big squire’s greathelm and Baptiste was turning and roaring and from nowhere a judge was blowing his whistle and quick as that it was done.

  “Three clean strikes to the head,” said the gray-robed judge, moving down the slope, pointing at Baptiste. “You’re taken captive. Same goes for you, Benhale. That’s enough of that. They knocked you off your feet, fair and square. Get yourselves to the hostage pen.”

  Robert Benhale had taken off his helm and thrown it to the ground and was kicking it. “I told them, I told them …”

  Baptiste unclipped the banner from his back but refused to let go and Robin and Bones had to wrestle it from him and the judge had to blow his whistle some more and make threats and eventually Baptiste released his grip. Robin slung the banner under his shield arm and the three of them ran with it through the fields toward the river.

  “Two hostages and twenty points already,” Bones said. “Not to mention a prize banner.”

  “The banner will be worth nothing unless we get it to the victor’s stand,” Irish said. “Can’t you run any faster, what’s up with your leg?”

  “Benhale caught me a lucky hit to the knee. I’ll be fine. Don’t slow down for me.”

  They forded the river and started up toward the display ground. The crowd waved flags and pointed to see a captured banner. Robin held it upright and ran with it, preparing to plant it in the victor’s stand, a mound of sand piled in front of the stands.

  But then he slowed and drew his sword, and the other two did the same. Squires were charging at them from both sides and in a storm of steel and wood they found themselves in the middle of a melee. There were fighters from at least three companies here, including Joscelin Tarcel and the remainder of his gang, intending to reclaim their standard. Others were scavengers, looking to steal the prize for themselves.

  Robin crashed his shield into a squire and thrust him aside; he bounced off another opponent and managed to break free of the ruck. Bones was shouting at him, “Go!” and Robin went, sprinting clear of the tumult, heading for the victor’s stand.

  Only fifty paces to go—forty—but then Joscelin Tarcel stepped into his path. He stood there in his elaborate armor, with its velvet coat and tassels. Through the jagged scar of his mouth guard he was gritting his teeth and forcing a smile.

  “We can reach agreements, you and I,” Tarcel said. “Think what I might do to improve your station.”

  Robin’s sword crashed into Tarcel’s shield. He swung again, putting all his weight into it, wanting this over before any of Tarcel’s cronies could break free of the melee. Tarcel took a step back and Robin pressed the advantage, driving his opponent toward the victor’s stand. He kept swinging and Tarcel kept giving ground and Robin kept attacking. He readied the banner, thinking he could reach the stand and plant it even with his opponent still on his feet.

  But then a glimpse of something caught Robin’s eye.

  A dark flash at the top edge of his vision.

  He forced himself not to look. He swung his sword; Tarcel retreated.

  He kept his eyes fixed on his opponent; he attacked.

  But there it was again, gleaming darkly, impossible to ignore. Something—someone—high up on the scaffold.

  He looked up.

  A young woman stood there, staring back. She wore a scarlet-and-gold gown, the flared sleeves hiding her hands, which she kept clasped at her middle. Her hair, swept across one shoulder, fell as far as her waist and was so lustrous in the sunlight it was almost iridescent, like the feathers of a starling.

  Her eyes, even at this distance, even beneath a light veil, were luminous eyes of gray and green.

  Marian.

  It was enough to make Robin drop his guard completely. And the shock only ran deeper as he saw that Marian was flanked by two household knights, and that between one of these men and her something shone dully like iron, like … shackles … as if she was standing there a prisoner …

  Robin registered all this in a heartbeat, but in that heartbeat Joscelin Tarcel made his move. He glanced toward the scrum to check no judges were looking this way, then he stepped forward and performed an attack called the Lion’s Claw: an underhand sweep, arcing toward Robin’s chin. It was a strike banned from the tourney field: a technique Sir Derrick said could break necks, even with training swords.

  Robin didn’t see the attack; the first he knew of it was the sound: a sickening clangin
g crunch. His head jolted back. Pain shot through his skull. There was a spinning blackness and he couldn’t see. He could barely breathe. He stumbled backward, both his sword and the banner dropping from his fingers.

  He regained his footing. He used his sword hand to thump down on his greathelm. The visor slid back over his eyes and he could see. The chin strap stopped choking him and he could breathe.

  The display ground spun. In front of him were two Joscelin Tarcels, stalking toward him, each raising their swords for the killing blow.

  In pain, enraged, Robin’s instincts took over. He made a lurch right, as if stooping for his sword, then bounced off his right foot, swerving left just as Tarcel’s sword arced past. Robin abandoned his own weapon and charged at Tarcel, barreling into him with his shield, his helm smashing into Tarcel’s chest. Tarcel stumbled backward and Robin kept charging and spitting fury and butting with his helm. Tarcel was driven backward, faster, and he was losing his balance even before he thumped into the victor’s stand. He went sprawling across the mound of sand. Robin threw himself on top of him, beating his gauntlets on his chest. Tarcel made sucking sounds through his mouth guard and Robin went on smashing his fists down, over and over, the sound of it echoing around the display ground …

  “I said, that’s enough!”

  Sir Derrick took hold of Robin’s gorget and used it to haul him backward to his feet. Whistles were blowing and all other fighting was coming to a halt. Robin struggled with his greathelm and eventually pulled it free.

  Sir Derrick came and stood very close, his breath sour. “So, Loxley, still determined to be the back-alley brawler? I thought we hammered that out of you long ago. Just goes to show, you can take the boy out of the hovel, but you can’t take the hovel out of the boy.” He turned and swept an arm around the circle of squires. “What is the single most important thing we’ve tried to teach you boys? That to win at any cost is not to win at all. The most dangerous opponent you will ever face is yourself. Sacrifice self-control, give way to fear and fury, and you may win this battle, but the war is lost. Get out of my sight, Loxley, you’re a disgrace. The Enterprise of Champions are disqualified from today’s events, with zero points.”