The Wolf and the Raven

by Steven A McKay

  “That was seven years ago now. My brothers have helped my wife and son, thank God, but, you know as well as anyone, I hardly ever get to see them, even after all this time.”

  He looked up at his young friend. “I miss them, Robin. I miss them every day. All I did was try and help.” His huge shoulders shook, his head slumped forward and he heaved a sigh that was full of hurt. “There’s no justice…”

  Robin sat for a moment, then he grasped John’s shoulder and squeezed, trying to do something reassuring, to offer some comfort.

  As the genial big outlaw sat, depressed and hurting, Robin thought again of the missing – probably dead – Tuck and Gareth, and the young outlaw captain wished that he'd never asked to hear John's story after all.

  * * *

  When Gareth had seen the raft approaching he had begun to wave the strip of white linen madly, but his lofty vantage point gave him a good view of the landscape where Robin and the rest of his friends were.

  He had seen the approach of the man in black and the soldiers, but couldn’t think of any way to warn the outlaws. When he had seen Robin and the others apparently joining forces with the soldiers he had heaved a sigh of relief and looked at making his way back down to join them.

  When the sounds of fighting reached him he realised there was no point in rushing to take part in the battle. He knew his limitations – knew he was much better as a scout or lookout than a fighter. His mother had struggled to feed him – and herself – when he was a child. The effects of malnutrition had remained with him as he had grown into early manhood. Although he had more than enough to eat nowadays, he still only ate sparingly and his frame remained slight as a result, unlike the rest of the outlaws.

  Robin, John, Will and the rest were killing machines though, he thought. They could deal with things on the riverside without him and his sword.

  He climbed back up to the top of the waterfall and looked down on the scene below.

  “What the fuck?” he breathed in disbelief.

  His friends were running from the battle.

  As he watched a little longer, it became clear the black figure commanding the soldiers was no friend. The rebels were massacred, all except their leader who was struggling in the grip of a couple of soldiers, and Gareth’s outlaw mates had all fled.

  Apart from Tuck.

  When the ominous black figure had shot the clergyman, Gareth had looked on in horror as his friend was thrown into the Don with a massive splash.

  Without thinking about it, he ran as fast as he could to where the men had cut logs for the raft on the river bank earlier and hauled the thickest branch left over into the water, straddling it as the freezing water hit him and the current dragged the makeshift boat downstream.

  The current was slow, so he kicked his legs to propel himself along faster, but it seemed to take an age before the rebel camp-site hove into view.

  The soldiers were searching the dead rebels for weapons and other valuables. He could see the man in the fancy black leather cuirass talking to a bald man and, as he swept past, he took a great deep breath and ducked under the water so only his hands were visible grasping the log, offering a silent prayer to the Magdalene to make him invisible.

  No one shot at him, and he came up for breath moments later, opening his eyes gingerly to get his bearings, hoping he was out of sight of the soldiers.

  Although the river was moving slowly, the current had carried him well beyond the rebels’ camp, so he pulled his torso onto the log, out of the freezing water, hoping the soft spring sun would dry him out before he became ill with the cold.

  He continued to pray for help as the branch carried him along, his eyes scanning the water for anything that seemed out of place for signs of Friar Tuck. Although the clergyman had landed on his back, Gareth knew his head would sink beneath the surface before long – he had to find him, fast.

  A dark mass came into view to his right and he dismissed it out of hand. The churchman was wearing grey, while the boulder he was looking at was black.

  As the log swept by he realised the rock was actually Tuck in his sodden habit. The friar was face-down in the river, apparently snagged on something underwater.

  With a desperate cry, Gareth kicked himself away from the safety of his log and swam against the current to reach Tuck.

  His thin arms weren’t suited to swimming, and, by the time he reached the friar, the youngster was almost exhausted. He knew his limbs would begin to cramp soon.

  Sobbing with fatigue he threw himself at Tuck. His weight was enough to dislodge the unconscious friar from whatever was holding him in place and the pair began to move downstream with the current again.

  Desperately kicking his legs, knowing he had to push them towards the riverbank or die, Gareth gritted his teeth and rolled the friar onto his back so his face was out of the water again.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, he swam sideways until, at last, the water became shallow and, with a last agonized effort, the slim teenager propelled the limp friar onto dry land.

  The young man simply lay on his side for a while, gasping from the exertion, and shivering uncontrollably from the cold. He knew he had to check on Tuck, but his tired body wouldn’t co-operate until he rested a little.

  “Move, you idiot!” he told himself, realising he was about to pass out.

  Whimpering, he dragged himself on his hands and knees to Tuck and, making sure to avoid the crossbow bolt which was still in place, pressed on his chest, up and down, up and down. He had seen one of the villagers in Wrangbrook doing this when a childhood friend of his had fallen into the water when they were playing by the mill one day, years ago.

  He had no idea what the purpose of the exercise was – it had done nothing for his friend, who had been blue when they took him from the water and had stayed blue – but it was the only thing he could think of doing to help the friar.

  “Come on you bastard!” he sobbed, looking imploringly at the sky, past the limit of endurance. “God, help him!”

  As the youngster collapsed, utterly spent, on the mud and stones of the riverbank, Tuck suddenly convulsed, water spurting from his mouth as if he was vomiting.

  Gareth watched in disbelief as the friar curled up, gasping and coughing, looking at him through glassy unseeing eyes. With a final gasp, Tuck stopped moving and Gareth panicked again, but he could see his big friend’s pale lips moving as he breathed heavily.

  They were both alive. But they were far from help, Gisbourne’s men were still in the area, they were both soaked to the skin in the cold spring air, and Tuck had been shot.

  Gareth had saved them both, simply to die here on the riverbank.

  * * *

  Gareth woke, but the sunlight was bright, so he kept his eyes shut and pulled the blankets around him even tighter.

  Then he remembered what had happened and sat up, fearful of what he might see.

  He was lying on a crude bed of straw, beside the fire-pit in what looked like a peasant’s house. There was a big pot of something cooking above the fire, porridge from the smell, which was making his mouth water. Beside it were his clothes, obviously hung there to dry out.

  He realised he was naked under the blankets and felt his face flush in embarrassment.

  No one else was in the room. Where was Tuck?

  He scrambled up and threw on his clothes, happy to note his weapons – a dagger and a short sword – on the floor.

  Where the hell was he? And how did he get there?

  The sounds of a busy village came through the thin walls and he wondered what to do.

  The door suddenly burst open and a man strode into the room, nodding as he saw the young man dressed and up.

  “You’re awake then, good.” He pointed to the porridge. “Help yourself, lad, you must be starving.”

  Gareth’s eyes cast about for a bowl, spotting one on a small table against the wall. There was a shallow wooden spoon with it, so he ladled some of the bubbling, creamy oats into the bowl a
nd blew on it, so hungry he was tempted just to shovel some of it in even though he knew it would be burning hot.

  “Where am I?” he asked, eyeing the man, who had sat in a chair by the fire. “How did I get here? And where’s the friar I was with? Is he…is he all right?”

  The man frowned. “He’s alive, aye, but he’s been unconscious since we brought him here to the village. He’s at the barber’s place. You're in Penyston.” The man gestured to a stool. “Sit. Eat.”

  Gareth gratefully sat down and began to spoon some of the hot food into his mouth, hoping the local barber was skilled in medicine as well as trimming beards. It was rare to find a qualified physician – and certainly one wouldn’t be working in a little village like this. Instead, small places like Penyston were served by surgeons or barbers who learned their trade by experience and from reading books – it wasn’t at all unusual for a patient to die as a result of the barber’s lack of medical knowledge, but there was usually no alternative in England's backwater villages.

  “Me and a mate were fishing in the Don,” the peasant said. “We saw you dragging the big Franciscan out of the water and came to help. It took us a little while to reach you, mind, since we were on the opposite bank. You were lucky, lad. You came ashore close to the village, so we were able to find a boat nearby and bring you and your friend back here before either of you got a killing chill.”

  “I owe you and your mate my life,” Gareth nodded solemnly. “I’ll reward you for it. You have my thanks.”

  The man raised an eyebrow at the thought of this skinny young man – probably a wolf’s head – rewarding him in any meaningful way, but his manners stopped him from making any remark.

  Finishing off the porridge gratefully, Gareth stood up, stretching his aching muscles. “Can I go see Tuck?”

  Recognition flared in the man’s eyes at the name and he stood up to show the young man out. “Aye, come on then, I’ll take you. Don’t tell anyone else in the village who the friar is. Or yourself either for that matter. No one needs to know. That way when the law come round looking for you and your gang no one will get into any trouble for helping you.” He looked at Gareth with fear plainly written on his face. “All right?”

  “Of course,” the outlaw agreed. “I don’t want to bring you or anyone else any bother. I’ll check on Tu – I’ll check on the friar then head back to our camp for help. Like I said, I’ll reward you, and the friar will be taken away from your village before trouble comes.”

  The barber’s place was a nice two-storey building, with the shop on the ground floor and the house above. It was of similar construction to the peasant’s dwelling, but bigger and with nicer furnishings.

  Gareth was shown in by the peasant, who didn’t offer his name before making his way quickly back home with a nervous wave and a blessing.

  The barber looked gravely at him when he brought him to see Friar Tuck, who lay on a wooden bed, the crossbow bolt in his chest removed and the wound heavily bandaged. Blood had seeped through the dressing, and the smell of alcohol was strong from the solution the barber had used to try and clean the wound.

  “He was fortunate,” the man told Gareth, gesturing to Tuck’s light armour which lay on the floor beside the bed. “His gambeson took much of the force out of the bolt so it didn’t go in too deeply. It’s mostly a flesh wound.” The barber looked questioningly at the young outlaw. “Unusual for a Franciscan to be wearing such a finely constructed piece of light armour under his habit,” he mused.

  Gareth pretended he hadn’t heard that.

  “If it’s just a flesh wound, when will he wake up?”

  The barber puffed out his cheeks and shrugged. “I have no idea. Maybe never – or, if he does, he might be unable to care for himself.”

  Seeing Gareth’s shocked look, the man continued. “He almost drowned. And if the filth in the river water got into his wound it will become infected.” He shook his head, looking down on the sleeping churchman pityingly. “However, he looks a strong man, and his skin is a healthy colour so he may wake up soon and be absolutely fine. I’ve prayed for him, there’s not much else to do.” His gaze moved to Gareth and he eyed him appraisingly. “What about you, lad? I’ve heard how you pulled the friar out of the river then collapsed yourself. You should be resting. Or is someone after you?”

  “You’re better not knowing anything about that,” the outlaw replied. “As for me – I’m all right. Tired and sore, but otherwise fine. I need to get back to my friends so we can get the friar away from here.”

  The barber nodded and led Gareth back to the front door. “Wait a second,” he called, hurrying into another room. When he returned he carried a small bottle. “Here, take some of this, it’ll help the chill in your bones.”

  The young man took the cork from the bottle and sniffed. “God’s bollocks,” he gasped, recoiling from the overpowering smell. “What is it?”

  “My own recipe. A concoction I distilled from wine after hearing about it from an Italian merchant,” the barber smiled, used to the reaction. “I’ve added some herbs and such to it. Drink some – just a little at a time. I guarantee you’ll feel much fitter after a few moments.”

  Gareth took a swig and cursed even more colourfully this time. It tasted vile and burned the back of his throat. The barber motioned him to drink more though, so, hoping the man wasn’t poisoning him, the young outlaw forced down another few gulps then, thanking the man for his help and promising to return for the friar soon, he stumbled into the street.

  A short time later, he was sprinting through the forest heading for Robin and the rest of the gang with a happy smile on his face, wondering how much of the barber’s medicine he could carry when they returned to the village for Tuck.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “You’re alive!” Little John grinned as Gareth trotted into their camp. The lookouts the outlaws always had posted around their base had seen the youngster coming and alerted the rest. They crowded around, clapping him on the back, happy to see him safe.

  “Sit down,” Robin laughed at the puffing lad, handing him an ale-skin which Gareth grasped gratefully.

  “So, what happened? How did you get away?” Much demanded, the others shouting questions of their own.

  Gareth caught his breath and took a long drink of ale, raising a hand to silence his curious friends.

  “We don’t have much time for questions,” he said. “Tuck’s alive.”

  There was uproar as everyone demanded the tale from the young outlaw.

  “Let him speak, for God’s sake!” Robin roared, silencing the men.

  “He’s in Penyston.” Gareth continued. “I saw that bastard in the black armour shoot him into the river, so I jumped on a log and floated downstream until I found him, then I dragged him out of the water.”

  “Nicely done,” Robin smiled as the men made appreciative noises. “You must be stronger than you look to have dragged the old friar onto dry land.”

  “I don’t know where I found the strength,” Gareth admitted. “I pressed on his chest until he spat out the water he’d swallowed, but then I passed out. When I woke up this morning I was in a bed in Penyston. Two fishermen from there had found us, and taken us to the village.”

  The outlaws were quiet as they pictured all this unfolding in their minds.

  “Tuck’s alive, you said,” Little John grunted, scratching his thick beard. “How is he?”

  Gareth shrugged. “The local barber removed the crossbow bolt from his chest and cleaned the wound up, but he’s unconscious. He might never wake up.”

  “So we have to go and bring Tuck back here before anyone – like Gisbourne – discovers him.” Gareth nodded and took another swig of ale as his leader went on. “If Tuck’s discovered, the people of Penyston will suffer for helping a wolf’s head.”

  Robin stood up. “Right. Who’s coming with me to get him?”

  Little John nodded. “I’ll fetch the stretcher.”

  Much and Will volunteer
ed to go as well. “Tuck carried me on a stretcher when I was wounded,” Scarlet said, “the least I can do is return the favour.”

  Gareth finished the last of the ale in the skin and, wiping his mouth contentedly, stood beside Robin. “I’m coming too.”

  Matt Groves snorted with laughter. “No offence, boy, but you’re too skinny to be much help carrying that fat churchman. And Penyston's a good few miles away – you must be worn out already.”

  Gareth was used to Groves’s snide remarks, so he just ignored the man, addressing Robin again. “I have a debt to pay to the men who saved us. Just let me collect some of my money from my things” –

  “Don’t be daft,” the young outlaw captain shook his head. “We’ll repay them with money from the common fund. Those men didn’t just help you, they helped Tuck too.”

  “Aye,” John agreed. “Besides, if the villagers around here know we appreciate their help, they’re more likely to keep offering it.”

  Robin nodded to Gareth, handing him a small key which he kept on a leather thong around his neck. “That’s a good point. Go and take two pounds of silver from the common chest. We’ll split it four ways: seven shillings each for the two fishermen and the barber, and the remainder for the village headman to buy everyone in the village some meat and ale as a thank you from us.” He grinned at the thought. “They can throw a feast in our honour.”

  “And when we get back here with Tuck,” John smiled. “We’ll have a feast in young Gareth’s honour. You’re a hero, lad.”

  The teenager laughed, embarrassed but pleased at the praise. “I’ve found just the thing we can celebrate with too,” he told them as they made their way through the forest to Penyston. “The barber has this amazing drink!”

  The barber was happy to sell them some of his strange brew, although he warned them not to drink too much. “It’s a lot more potent than ale,” he told them as they lifted the stretcher with the unconscious Tuck on it, a man to each corner, Gareth following at the rear carrying a few skins filled with the powerful drink.