There was nothing else for it. Robin nodded and made his way past Gisbourne, expecting the man’s wicked looking blade to pierce his back at any moment.
Tuck and the rest followed behind, Little John hunching over to try and appear smaller.
“How the fuck do we get out of this?” Allan whispered to Robin.
The young leader looked at the four men with him. “No idea,” he admitted. “Hopefully Will realises what’s happening and takes out some of Gisbourne’s men. Once the shooting starts, kill anyone that isn’t one of our friends, then…either make a run for it, or try and jump in the river. There’s no way we can beat that lot,” he gestured with his thumb to the cluster of soldiers following behind them.
“Aye,” Tuck groaned. “And Christ himself knows how the rebels will react when they see us coming…”
“They’re no bounty-hunters,” Nicholas growled to his captain, gesturing to the outlaws conversing in hushed tones in front of them. “A young man leading a Franciscan and a giant? It’s Robin Hood and his men!”
“Well done,” Gisbourne replied, fitting a quarrel to his crossbow as the outlaws led them through the trees. “But there’s only five of them – so we let them lead us to the rest of their gang. And, if there really are rebels hiding out here, so much the better. This will be a very productive afternoon!”
It only took a few moments for Robin and the rest to reach the outskirts of the undergrowth at the edge of the rebel’s camp. He turned to Gisbourne and gestured, wondering what the bounty-hunter wanted them to do?
The man simply shrugged with a relaxed smile, so Robin turned back and, trying to find a target through the foliage, raised his sword and, as the raft carrying Much and the other two slowly came into sight, shouted, “Attack!”
* * *
The Don was calm and the raft held steady as Much, Peter and James floated steadily downriver and the rebel camp came into sight.
The men were clustered around their camp-fire, drinking from wine-skins, laughing and joking together, oblivious to the bizarre sight on the water just yards behind them.
Much let out a relieved sigh. If there had been a lookout with a bow they’d have been easy targets but Will had done his job and removed any sentries. “Ready, lads?” he wondered, standing and fitting an arrow to his bowstring, his two companions following suit.
“Don’t try anything fancy,” Peter warned them. “The raft might be steady now, but we could hit a branch, or an underwater current at any time, so just take the easiest shot you can.”
Much couldn’t help grinning, the blood beginning to really pump in his veins, as Robin suddenly burst from the trees behind the rebels, sword raised, shouting something at the startled men.
Little John, Tuck, Paul Fuller and Allan-a-Dale appeared in loose formation behind their young leader, weapons ready, faces grim, as the shocked rebels leapt up from their seats by the camp-fire, scrabbling for their own weapons.
“Shoot!” Much shouted, loosing his arrow which flashed across the short distance and hammered into a rebel’s back, sending the man stumbling forward onto the grass. Peter and James also let fly, their missiles finding targets too, and the three archers quickly nocked another arrow to their bowstrings.
The rebels were in chaos, as three of them were taken down by an attack from behind, then, from the side, more arrows battered them when Will Scarlet and his men joined in.
Sir Guy sauntered into view, his men slowly fanning out behind him, and the rebels, already panicked, completely lost any semblance of disciplined resistance, looking around for an escape rather than working together to hold off their attackers.
“Make for the raft!” Robin shouted at the outlaws beside him. “Fight your way through these idiots, and jump onto the raft before it’s too far downstream!”
Tuck crossed himself, his eyes heavenward, and with John and Allan at his side, they tore into the rebels, not stopping to finish their targets off, just barrelling past to try and catch the raft before it sailed away.
Robin raced towards the trees where Will and the rest of their men were still concealed, gesturing towards Gisbourne and his soldiers, screaming as loud as he could. “Run for it! Run!” One of the rebels had been taking a piss in the bushes, and, seeing Robin coming towards him, lunged at the young man with his dagger.
Without even slowing, Robin swatted the short blade aside and battered the hilt of his sword into the man's face, feeling teeth crunch and warm blood on his knuckles as the rebel fell back and Robin continued his mad dash.
By now, Sir Guy realised Robin Hood’s men might well escape. “Finish those men off, quickly!” he ordered his men, pointing his crossbow at the remaining rebels, none of whom were offering any real resistance as their original attackers seemed to be fleeing. “Then get after Hood and his gang!”
“What the hell’s going on?” the rebel leader, Sir Richard Willysdon shouted, as the remainder of his dazed men stared about themselves, wide-eyed. “Get a grip of yourselves, damn you! Form a circle around me!”
Will Scarlet had seen Robin coming towards him, and the man wearing the exquisite black armour could only be Sir Guy of Gisbourne, so it didn’t take him long to figure out things had gone drastically wrong. “Retreat!” he shouted, turning and waving his men back towards the south. “Lose yourselves in the trees; meet back at camp later on if we get separated!”
Robin pelted into the trees at their backs, with a glance over his shoulder.
Thankfully, Sir Guy’s men were engaging the remaining rebels. By the time anyone came after him and the rest of his friends, they would hopefully be long gone, disappeared into the forest they knew so well.
Little John had managed to jump onto the raft, almost capsizing it with his enormous weight, while Allan-a-Dale had landed in the water just short of it. Much and Peter helped him climb on board, as John and James moved to the opposite side of the wavering craft, trying to displace the weight so it wouldn’t flip over.
Although the river wasn’t moving all that fast, Friar Tuck wasn’t as fit as the other outlaws. His face was scarlet as he puffed along, trying to catch up with the raft, but it was slowly pulling away from him.
Robin halted his flight, crouching down amongst the bushes, praying that Tuck would make it, but his heart sank as the craft pulled away.
“Jump in!” the outlaw leader whispered to himself. “Jump in, Tuck! Let the current carry you to safety!”
To his shock, Tuck slowed to a stop, breathing heavily, watching in anguish as the raft with his friends on it sailed inexorably downstream.
“What’s he doing?” John shouted, as the mismatched fight between the rebels and Gisbourne’s men came to a conclusion and Gisbourne walked towards the breathless friar who dropped his sword on the riverbank and raised a hand in defeat. “Why won’t he jump in?”
“He can’t swim,” Robin groaned as the realization dawned on him. “Ah shit. Now we’ll have to rescue Tuck!”
Gisbourne’s men killed the last of the rebels, but Nicholas ordered their leader, Sir Richard Willysdon, to be spared and tied up. From his expensive-looking armour and arrogant bearing the man was clearly a noble. The king would reward them well for bringing the man to him for a public trial.
The outlaws on the raft collapsed in frustration and exhaustion as the battle-fever left them and reality hit them. As it sailed out of sight around a bend in the river Robin prepared to head back to their camp again, where they could regroup and make a plan to help Tuck.
He watched as Sir Guy ambled over to the overweight churchman, the pair talking although Robin couldn’t hear what was said.
“There’s another one of them!” One of Gisbourne’s soldiers spotted Robin and, pointing towards the hiding outlaw, led his fellows into the undergrowth.
As he turned to sprint off, Robin saw Gisbourne lift his finely-carved black crossbow and heard the sharp crack as the bolt was released.
“No!” he sobbed, but there was nothing he could do
as the wicked bolt hammered into the jovial friar and his friend was hurled backwards into the river.
* * *
The forest was quiet that night.
The outlaws had made their way back to camp in dribs and drabs, exhausted and, in Allan’s case, soaked through.
Astonishingly, only two of the group were missing. Will had led his group back and the volatile Scarlet now sat dejectedly on his own apart from the group, thinking of his old drinking partner Wilfred and the absent Franciscan friar.
Much and the rest of the men on the raft had let the current carry them back to Oughtibridge then made their way warily back to camp.
When he arrived back last of all, Robin had told them of Tuck’s shooting, but young Gareth hadn’t returned either. It seemed certain Gisbourne’s men must have killed him.
“The bastard knew who we were the minute he saw us,” Robin spat. “He probably sent a couple of his soldiers after Gareth while we were heading towards the rebels’ camp.”
“Poor lad,” John shook his big head sorrowfully. “Couldn’t pull a longbow, or wield a sword very well, but he was a fine companion with that daft toothless grin of his.”
When Robin had shaken his pursuers he had searched along the riverbank for signs of Tuck’s body, but it was pointless and he'd eventually headed home in despair.
As the light faded the men had cracked open a barrel of ale and were gloomily downing the dark liquid, huddling close to the camp-fire for it was a bitter cold evening again.
“He might yet be alive,” John said, wandering over to Robin and clapping his young leader on the shoulder reassuringly. “Tuck’s a hard man. It’d take a lot to kill him.”
“He was shot with a crossbow and fell in the river. Since he couldn’t swim, I’d say that’s a lot to survive.” His shoulders slumped. “It’s my fault. I should have come up with a better plan. Or better yet, should never have led everyone to tackle the group of rebels in the first place.”
“Don’t start with the self-pity crap,” John growled, glaring at his friend. “Your plan was a good one – you think differently to everyone else, that’s how you come up with ideas that are so mad they work. It was sheer bad luck Gisbourne and his men turned up when they did.”
The giant wolf’s head could see his words hadn’t worked. “Listen, Robin, those bastard rebels killed our friend Wilfred – a good man, who only wanted to defend his livelihood and stand up for what he knew was right. The men all wanted to avenge the baker, you didn’t just decide that’s what we were doing. Mourn Tuck if you have to, but don’t sit around here feeling sorry for yourself with a face like someone took a shit in your pottage.”
Robin felt his temper rise, his cheeks flushing at John’s telling off, and he locked eyes with the big man – but then glanced away in shame, knowing he deserved the rebuke.
They sat drinking in silence for a while, but Robin felt the need for companionship that night.
“Why are you an outlaw, John?”
Robin had never wanted to pry into the other outlaws' histories unless they offered up the information themselves, but he had been curious about this ever since the day he had met the big man and now seemed as good a time as any to ask.
* * *
John Little had originally lived in the village of Holderness, where he had a wife, Amber, and a small son, also called John. He was a blacksmith by trade, with his own little shop at the front of their house. His father had been the village blacksmith before him, and taught John the skills required to forge a plough or shod a horse.
His life was simple, but pleasant, and his family and friends in the village made him happy while his work was interesting and he always tried to improve on the small weapons and implements he crafted.
“Then,” said John, “one night – autumn it was – blowing a gale outside and pitch black, my wife came back from visiting her sister and started going on about the baker, knocking his wife and kids about their house. Nothing unusual. The baker was a drunk with a vicious temper – everyone in the place knew it. He’d been spoken to before by people around the village, including me, telling him he shouldn’t act like that, not with little children around. He’d act all ashamed, blame the drink, promise not to do it again – then he’d stumble home from the alehouse and knock them about worse. There were even stories amongst the village women that he forced his eldest girl into his bed, but...They were just rumours. I don’t know how anyone could have known anything like that was happening...
“I didn’t like any of it,” John muttered, his voice low, “but... What could I do?
“Anyway, this night my wife said it was worse. The baker was going crazy, had locked them in his house and was shouting about burning their house down with them all in it. The young ones were screaming and crying, and there wasn’t a sound from his wife, which wasn’t a good sign since you could usually hear her crying or shouting at him to stop.
“Well, I knew what the baker was like with a few ales in him: I thought he might well set alight to his house, and you know what it’s like in a village like Holderness, especially on a windy night: one house starts to burn and it sets off the ones next to it until half the place is burning. And our house wasn’t too far away from the bakers.
“So, I go along to his house and sure enough, there’s a lot of noise coming from inside. I knock on the door and tell him to calm down and come out.
“’Fuck off, Little, this is none of your business!’” he shouts, probably called me an oaf or something like that too, pleasant fellow he was.”
John gave Robin a sardonic look, and carried on as the young outlaw smiled silently, not wanting to disturb the big man's story.
“I tried to reason with him – the kids are frightened, they haven’t done anything wrong, you’ve just had too much drink – that kind of thing, but he wasn’t having it, just kept shouting. I could hear him hitting the children too, so I was getting angrier myself and, when I heard him breaking up furniture to set fire to the place I’d had enough.”
John’s mood as he told his story had been relatively light so far, his natural good humour shining through. Now though, his expression turned dark, as he remembered the rest of that night.
“I couldn’t just stand there shouting like an idiot while I knew he was trying to burn his house down, so I kicked the door in. Didn’t take much: one good kick and it went right in.”
The giant turned his face away from Robin and his voice became even more strained as he went on. “The bastard had killed his wife. She was lying on the floor with her neck broke, you could tell straight away. I’d never seen someone with a broken neck before but her head looked weird, didn’t seem to be on right, you know….And his kids were there – three of them he had. Three girls. Two of them, the little ones, were crying and huddling against each other in the corner, while he was…he was on top of his eldest…on the bed… His own daughter... His own daughter Robin, she was only eleven! And the worst of it was, she wasn’t even struggling…it was like she was used to it, she just looked at me as I came through the door with a blank look in her eyes, like she wasn’t even there, like she couldn’t even see me.”
Little John shook his head, the pain in his voice turning to fury as he carried on, his fists clenched.
“Well, he didn’t take any notice of me coming through the door, he just carried on, his horrible white arse pumping up and down, so I came in and dragged him off her, threw him onto the floor. He went down, but only for a few seconds, then he came up, flying at me. Like I said, he was quite a big man and strong – I wasn’t much of a fighter back then and…I was frightened, and shocked, by everything that was happening. So when he came at me in a rage I just punched him in the face as hard as I could.”
The sun had gone down by now and, in the darkness, a cold breeze whispered through the leaves of the trees surrounding the camp. The rest of the men were a little way off, talking and joking around the camp-fire which glowed a bright orange as Robin looked at it,
although it cast little light outside its own small circle. John hid his face in the shadows as he continued, but the dim light couldn't hide the hurt in his voice.
“He fell right over backwards – must have been knocked right out when I hit him. By that time some of the other village men had come along and they grabbed me, dragged me outside. Of course, I was shouting and struggling and . . . in all the noise and with the children crying and whatever, no one thought to check on the baker straight away . . .” John turned, his face wet with tears that glistened in the light from the camp-fire. “He’d fallen right into their hearth. Face first. The children saw him burn to death.”
The big man’s head dropped and he hugged his knees in an almost childlike way. “Those two little girls ran out the house screaming and crying and started hitting my legs, saying I’d killed their daddy, they hated me, I was this and that.” His open, honest face took on a look of bewilderment. “Even after what he’d done, they still loved him, he was still their da… And I'd killed him. I was the Devil to them, even though the bastard had killed their ma, raped their older sister and I’d stopped him from burning their house down around them!”
The bailiff had come and arrested Little John. He had, after all, broken into another man’s house and killed him. He couldn’t deny it and it didn’t seem to matter that he’d only been trying to stop the drunken fool of a baker burning down the village. The baker’s eldest daughter hadn’t said a word to anyone since the night her father died – her mind had gone, the villagers said, and so she’d been sent off to live with the nuns at the local priory.
The corrupt magistrate would have been lenient if John had any money, but, although his family managed well enough, they weren’t rich.
So Little John had been sentenced to hang. He had escaped from the bailiff’s men on the way to the gallows though, and taken refuge in the forest before Adam Bell’s men had found him and taken him into their group.
The Wolf and the Raven Page 7