Shadow of the Wolf

by Tim Hall

  She paused, gripping Robin’s hand.

  Then she said, in a different voice: “And that’s why, one day, we will have to kill him. I’ve come to see that as clearly as anything I’ve ever known. It’s the only way I’ll ever be free. And the same is true for you. He’s shadowed you, and he always will—until he’s destroyed. There’s so much you need to know, I can barely think where to start. When you hear it all you’ll see what needs to be done. You can’t seal up the past and pretend it never happened.”

  She yawned heavily, then fell quiet. Robin listened to her breathing.

  After a while he said: “When we were living in the tower, and we planned all the places we’d go and the things we’d see—that was our future, the life we should have had, until it was stolen from us. Well, don’t you see, we’ve been given a second chance. We should be looking forward, not back. We’ll go to Castile, if that’s where you want to go first. And afterward to Arabia and Rome and Baghdad. Our story was interrupted. We can continue where we left off.”

  He paused. She said nothing.

  “After the fire …,” Robin said, “you could have been anywhere in the world. I didn’t even know if you were alive or dead. Can you imagine what it was like for me, seeing you again, on the tourney field? And now we’re here. We’re together. Now … nothing else matters.”

  But he knew she was no longer listening. Her breathing had changed, become slow and heavy. In her sleep she murmured: “Strong and handsome. My champion. Knew you’d come.”

  He felt her breath on his neck. He felt her soft warmth rise and fall. He breathed the smell of her, and he felt her kiss, forged on his lips. He stared at the roof of the granary. The dawn approaching. Motes of dust beginning to show in the air.

  He senses it won’t take long now for them to reach the shore. They are in a boat with a bright red sail, and on the horizon is an exotic trading port with flat white roofs and silver domes and golden spires. He is aware he is dreaming. He hasn’t yet fallen asleep, but already he is dreaming. He can taste the salt in the air; he can hear the raucous call of gulls. And now they are sailing back to England and Robin is wearing a silver cloak and holding a golden sword, and his father and Sir Bors are both there on the shore, looking at Robin, seeing all he has become …

  Robin’s eyes are closing …

  They open again a heartbeat later.

  He is sure they were closed no longer than a heartbeat. Yet somehow full daylight is slicing through the woven walls, and the quiet of Marian’s breathing is being shattered by hammer-blow sounds from the ground below. And Marian is rising to her knees and her eyes are wild and scared.

  Horsemen are coming into the village. Ten, twelve riders at least. The thunder of hooves coming to a halt and the sound of men in mailcoats as they dismount. The crump of nailed boots.

  And then Robin hears a voice, and he has no doubt this is the Sheriff speaking.

  And the Sheriff is saying Marian’s name.

  The Sheriff spoke softly, but his voice carried clearly on the breeze.

  “We are searching for a young woman. Her name is Marian Delbosque. Anyone found harboring her will be dealt with severely. I will remind you all that lying to me is punishable by the loss of a tongue. Who is the headman here? Come and stand before me. Prime Marshall, direct your men.”

  Robin and Marian crawled across the granary and pushed their faces to the latticed wall. Hazily, through the narrow gaps, they saw the Sheriff, sitting on his black mare. Alongside the Sheriff sat a gray-faced man, thin as a knife. And climbing down from their horses were a dozen soldiers, each of them gripping a stabbing sword or an ironwood club.

  Robin saw with shock that one of the rangers had scarified cheeks. Here was the young man they called Edric—the soldier Robin thought he had killed. Beneath his skull-helm a reddened bandage showed. This ranger went about the village in a fury, kicking a stray dog, swinging his club at anyone too slow to get out of the way. Other soldiers were thrusting spears into hay bales, kicking over water troughs, crashing through homes.

  Then came a new noise: the creaking of a ladder.

  The ladder that led to their hiding place.

  Marian had turned still as stone. Robin pulled her to her feet. He took her to the rear of the granary. The largest of the ceramic urns were four feet high. Most were full of grain, but a few were empty. He helped Marian climb inside one of the urns, then he clambered inside another and ducked out of sight.

  The ladder creaked more heavily. A soldier lumbered into the granary, followed by a second man. For a moment neither of them moved, waiting perhaps for their eyes to adjust to the gloom.

  Robin had grabbed his backpack and now he gripped the handle of his woodsman’s knife. Sir Derrick had taught the squires to use their environment as a weapon: to be aware that sunlight will dazzle; that uneven ground will keep an assailant off balance; to use concealment and shock to their advantage. All of which told Robin he should attack these rangers now, while they were on unfamiliar ground, while they were half blind, coming in from bright sunshine. Wasn’t that Marian’s best chance of escape, while Robin kept these men occupied?

  No, there are too many soldiers below. You can’t fight the whole world. Keep your nerve …

  He held still, listening to his heart thump, and the sounds of his breath, loud in that constricted space. The men came farther into the room, the whole structure lurching beneath their weight.

  A tapping sound—Robin thought it was one of the men prodding at the urns with his club.

  Then a crash—an explosion of pottery and grain. The soldier grunted and swung his club again and a second vase shattered. The pattering of grain through the mesh floor.

  The men continued pacing, tapping at the urns, then destroying them, one after another.

  No choice now. Robin would have to fight.

  Tap, tap.

  He gripped the knife, braced himself for the moment his urn smashed.

  Tap, tap.

  The noise now very close. He only hoped they would reach him before Marian …

  Tap, tap.

  But the next crash never came. The tapping stopped.

  “Just grain,” one of the rangers said.

  “In a granary?” the second man said. “Who’d have thought? Waste of time. How long has it been? Mark her down as the one that got away.”

  The men turned and the granary lurched and the ladder creaked and they were gone.

  Robin listened to the other soldiers, still searching the village. A dog barked, yelped, then whimpered. Someone was crying, and someone else pleading. Finally came a quiet word from the Sheriff, followed by barked instructions, and the rangers were mounting their horses.

  The Sheriff and his henchmen were riding away.

  We did it. She’s safe.

  They climbed out carefully. Robin moved to the wall and put an eye to the lattice and he watched villagers picking themselves up, helping one another.

  “We should stick to the plan,” he said. “Stay here until dark.”

  Marian was staring into space.

  “This is probably the safest place for now,” Robin said. “They won’t look in the same place twice.”

  Marian nodded, just once.

  “As soon as the villagers are asleep we’ll go and find horses,” Robin said. “We’ll put miles between us and the Sheriff.”

  Marian was hugging her knees and saying nothing. Robin went to her and put his cloak around them both. They sat in silence and they waited.

  * * *

  All they could do was wait. There was no chance they could sleep again now. The lances of light through the wall became brighter, then softened. The motes of dust began to fade, rain clouds darkening the sky. A light drizzle falling on the granary roof.

  They waited. Marian rested her head on Robin’s shoulder. But then she sat up straight and an expression crossed her face: not a look of fear; more of puzzlement and disgust.

  Robin heard it too and in the nex
t instant horses were riding fast into the village.

  No, no! Why are they coming back?

  They pushed their faces to the wall and peered through the lattice. Marian’s fingernails sank into Robin’s flesh. There was the Sheriff on his black mare, and beside him the skeletal man. And with them were the twelve red-cloaked soldiers from before. Behind them, more slowly, came packhorses pulling two carts. On one of these carts was an empty cage. On the other were four more rangers, carrying backpacks and lanterns.

  Four rangers who had clearly been tracking their quarry on foot.

  Robin thought of the points of light that had followed them across the fields.

  Marian’s nails dug deeper. “They did follow you! They’ve been following you since the start. You led them to me!”

  Robin put his hand over her mouth. “I need you to stay calm,” he said. “We hid last time, didn’t we? We’ll hide again. We’ll get through this, but only if we don’t panic.”

  He put one eye back to a gap in the weave. The Sheriff was sweeping his piercing blue gaze around the village.

  “Headman,” he said. “Come and stand before me.”

  A white-haired man shuffled forward. A big soldier with a patch over one eye grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.

  “We came here looking for a young woman,” the Sheriff said. “You assured me you had not seen her. And yet my Chief Rider tells me he followed her and a boy through the forest. He tracked the pair to this village. He says the signs go no farther. I am going to ask you one last time: Where is she hiding?”

  The old man didn’t make a sound; he only raised his hands, shook his head.

  The Sheriff lifted one finger.

  The one-eyed soldier took a step back, swung his ironwood club. A loud crack. A red mist rose against the drizzle. The ranger hit the headman again and again, where he lay on the ground. The soldier’s back was facing the granary so Robin could no longer see the old man, but he could see the soldier swinging his bludgeon, over and over, until it was making a noise like somebody churning butter. People were sobbing.

  The Sheriff peered around the village. On his left side his lips were burnt away, exposing the teeth, so it looked as though he was grinning.

  “When a vixen goes to ground …,” he said, “she leaves us no choice but to smoke her out. Marshall Rogue, see it is done thoroughly.”

  Soldiers went into homes, came back out with burning brands from cook fires. They used the brands to set alight the thatched roofs. Villagers pleaded and cried and fought—rangers pushed them aside or beat them down.

  One soldier passed below the granary. Smoke snaked through the mesh floor.

  Marian headed for the ladder. Robin held her back. She struggled. He held her.

  “Listen,” he whispered. “We’ve got one chance. It’s been raining—the thatch is damp. There’s going to be a lot of smoke, and panic. That could work to our advantage. We wait until the smoke is thickest and then we slip away. The ditch, at the edge of the village. We run for that. We hide there. But we have to stay here as long as we can stand.”

  Marian’s eyes were desperate above his hand. She managed a single nod. He pulled his spare tunic from his backpack and wrapped it around her nose and mouth. He pulled his cloak over his shoulder and wrapped it around his own face.

  The granary was filling with smoke; Robin pushed Marian to the floor, to find the clearest air. Heat was washing up in waves, flames beginning to lick around their feet. Wind whistled through the village, making the fires roar.

  The granary lurched. A splintering, cracking sound.

  Robin could hold Marian no longer—she struggled from his grasp, darted to the doorway, and disappeared over the edge. Robin counted ten breaths, allowing her to get clear, before he followed.

  He was halfway to the ground when the ladder collapsed. He landed heavily, pain shooting through his skull and his ribs. For a moment the world dimmed and he couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe, but then everything swam back into focus and he sucked a breath and struggled to his feet. He staggered through the smoke, holding his side, heading for the edge of the village.

  He couldn’t see Marian—she must be somewhere ahead.

  A flash of red; a shout of pain and a crash; an acrid stench. He ran clear of it all and fell down into the ditch, jarring his injured side, gritting his teeth and managing not to cry out.

  He splashed around in the mud, first one way, then the other, looking for Marian.

  No sign of her.

  He battled the urge to run back into the flames—fought the instinct to stand and shout her name. He peered again into the village, but the smoke was swirling thick and blue and he could see nothing.

  The wind was blowing to the north; he crawled south, looking for clearer air. He kept crawling, still fighting for breath. He raised his head from the trench.

  Anger and fear surged.

  Above him, sitting calmly on their mounts, were the Sheriff and the gray cadaverous man. They had moved to the common grazing ground, on raised land to the south of the village. Robin had crawled very close. Close enough to see the ruined side of the Sheriff’s face weeping in the heat. The Sheriff dabbed at it with a handkerchief as he turned and said something to the skeletal man.

  Robin ducked down and crept backward, to stay out of their sight line. He raised his head once more. Now the Sheriff was staring into the village. Robin looked and saw soldiers coming out of the smoke, coughing and trying to calm their horses.

  Last to emerge were the pack animals pulling the two carts.

  And on the back of the second cart was the cage. And inside the cage was Marian.

  Stay calm, Robin told himself. Nothing rash. Stay hidden. If he was going to help her, he had to plan carefully and stay in control. But he looked at Marian in that cage—her wrists tied and a gag between her teeth—and he felt hot rage pushing at the back of his skull. Even in the worst, darkest days after his parents disappeared—even following the fire at the Delbosque manor—he did not remember feeling such fury.

  The prison cart was being led past the Sheriff; he no more than glanced at Marian before turning to talk again to the thin man with the gray face. The cage came to a stop at the far edge of the common ground. Robin followed its progress, crawling through the ditch, keeping his head down. He was trying to think clearly, and to plan. Now that they had Marian the soldiers had forgotten about him—that was why he could creep so near. So then, he would remain hidden: He would follow the soldiers, wherever it was they went. Once darkness fell and there was just one man on guard, then Robin would strike, and find a way to set her free. Until then, patience. Put aside your anger—it will not help her.

  Yet even as he was thinking this, his knife found its way out of his pack and into his hand. He slipped the blade from its sheath, laid a finger on the serrated edge.

  He crawled closer. Two soldiers, standing very near, would have seen him if they had looked down, but they weren’t looking because they regarded Robin as merely a boy and no threat. How he would make them regret that …

  But only when the time is right. Think of the hunt: A hasty shot will ruin everything. Patience is the key.

  He slid the blade back inside its sheath.

  But then he watched another soldier approach the prison cart. It was the wasp-haired ranger called Edric. Robin was close enough to see the blood dried on his neck; the teardrop scars on his cheeks.

  This ranger glanced at the Sheriff—one hundred paces away, his back turned—before he started circling the cage. He began making slow noises with his tongue: la, la, la.

  He was staring at Marian, circling her.

  La, la, la.

  Robin felt such rage he wanted to scream.

  His bow was still strapped to his back, but his quiver had been lost somewhere along the way. So then, there was only this knife, hot in his hand.

  Don’t move. Remember what they taught you: Sacrifice self-control and you may win this battle, but the war is
lost.

  But the young ranger was reaching into the cage …

  La, la, la.

  And Robin was pulling the knife from its sheath …

  La, la, la.

  “You, Edric, get away from her.”

  An older ranger was striding toward the prison cart. A tall, dark-featured man. Here was the leader of the squad who arrived in the village last—the man who had tracked Robin from the start.

  “I said, move away from the prisoner.”

  Edric stayed where he was, raising a finger to his bloody bandage and scratching beneath. “Look, she’s a ravishing little thing,” he said. “Think I’ll volunteer for first watch tonight.”

  “This is the last warning you’ll get,” the older soldier said. “Men—boys—like you make me sick. We have to see this work done, but we do not have to like it.”

  “Are you squeamish, Will Scarlett? Something tells me you’re not going to be Chief Rider very long.”

  But as he spoke the soldier called Edric was moving away from the cart.

  “Ranger Cragg,” said the one called Will Scarlett. “Keep one eye on the prisoner, the other on Edric Krul.”

  As soon as Will Scarlett walked away, Edric Krul moved once more toward the cage.

  “Krul, you heard the Chief Rider,” a third ranger said. “Keep away from her.”

  The younger soldier ignored him. He picked at the scabs forming above his ear. “Where’s your friend?” he said to Marian. “Did he run out on you? Shame. I was looking forward to meeting that one again. At least you’re here to console me.”

  He circled the cage and made that noise again with his tongue.

  La, la, la.

  Robin’s wrath rose, hotter than ever.

  La, la, la.

  The ranger was reaching through the bars.

  The fury burning at the back of Robin’s skull.

  La, la, la.

  Marian shrinking away from Edric’s fingers, her hands tied.

  The look in her eyes …

  La, la, la.

  The soldier reaching …

  Robin launched from his hiding place, his knife heading for the young ranger’s throat. In that same moment the third ranger stepped toward Edric Krul to haul him away from the cart. Robin’s knife gashed the second man’s arm—he cried out and stumbled away. Robin lunged again at Edric Krul, but he was scuttling out of range.