Christ, that ale was strong, right enough!
His head swam slightly after just one mug and he knew he’d have to take it easy – and be in bed early – if he was to be off for Clerkenwell at dawn the following morning.
He sat watching the musician for a while, the ale and the warmth of the room seeping into his bones. He hadn’t felt this relaxed in a long time and he savoured the feeling.
Another ale went down and he found himself tapping his foot in time with the music, although it would take an awful lot of alcohol to make the gruff Hospitaller join in with the raucous singing.
“May I sit with you, sir?”
Startled out of his comfortable reverie, Stephen looked around and was shocked to see the gorgeous red-head sitting down at his table.
There was no sign of her elderly male companion.
“Where’s your father, girl?”
“He’s had enough of Hobb’s ale,” she laughed, her green eyes sparkling as she nodded towards the busy inn-keeper. “He makes it too strong, and my da can only handle a few before he can barely stand up. So I sent him home, but I felt like staying and listening to the music for a while.” She looked at the sergeant-at-arms somewhat sheepishly. “A girl can’t be seen out on her own though can she? I’d be the talk of the village, sitting in an alehouse, drinking by myself.”
Stephen raised his eyebrows. “But you won’t be the talk of the place for sitting with a stranger?”
The girl smiled again, pushing her long red hair away from her face. “You’re a Hospitaller. A man of God. I’m safe with you – I might as well be sitting with the pope himself.”
She was really quite beautiful Stephen thought to himself, his eyes lingering on her smiling face.
“Aye, lass, I suppose so. Unless you mean Benedict.”
Pope Benedict IX had, almost three hundred years earlier, been notorious for his sexual depravity – being accused of everything from homosexuality to rape and even murder – but the girl looked blankly at Stephen, clearly having no idea what he was on about.
“Never mind,” he grunted, signalling Hobb to bring another couple of ales over. “You’re safe with me, but it’s been a long time since I sat drinking with a woman. You might find my conversation boring.”
She grinned and leaned against him for a second, nudging him companionably with her shoulder. “Let’s just listen to the music for a bit then, eh?”
The girl seemed totally oblivious to how attractive she was, or she wouldn’t be acting so familiar with strange men, Stephen thought. He looked at her as she watched the minstrel, enjoying the sight of her perfectly rounded nose, full lips and trim figure.
She suddenly turned to him, catching him watching her, and smiled, curling her tongue onto her teeth, her green eyes shining, before turning her gaze back to the minstrel. From any other woman such a look would have been openly wanton, yet this girl appeared to be simply having fun, enjoying life to the full.
Silently, the Hospitaller swore to himself as he felt his loins tingle and his trousers begin to bulge.
The ale had gone to his head and he felt confused. A man of his age and experience should know better, but the presence of the stunning red-head was playing havoc with his emotions. He didn’t know whether he was falling in love or just desperately wanted to lie with her, but, without even realising it, he stared at the girl, his eyes drinking in the sight of her as she moved slightly, almost dancing in her seat to the music.
Every now and again she would look at him and grin.
Before too long Stephen had lost track of the time, his mission forgotten, and he found himself singing and dancing with the girl, whose name he still never knew, amongst the other drunken revellers in the Wheatsheaf.
Eventually though, the powerful drink was too much for the Hospitaller and he sat down, his head spinning, nursing the dregs in his mug breathlessly.
“You’re worse than my da!” The girl laughed, leaning against him and shouting in his ear over the music. He grinned blearily, enjoying the fleeting touch of her mouth and the feel of her breasts pressing gently on his arm.
He looked at her and she gazed back, her wide green eyes surprisingly alert.
“Come on, I’ll help you to your room. You need to go to bed.”
Even though he was by now well in his cups, Stephen somehow stopped himself from replying, Aye, and I need you to come with me.
His body ached to be closer to her though, as she helped him along the narrow hallway to his guest room.
He never wondered how she knew where his chamber was, and he never noticed the disapproving look Hobb threw the red-head as she escorted the Hospitaller out of the common room.
Stephen was drunk, and, for now, hopelessly besotted; his vow of chastity forgotten once again.
When she closed and bolted the door to his room behind them and, with another bright smile, kissed him, her tongue forcing its way into his mouth, the Hospitaller felt closer to heaven than he ever had killing men in the name of God.
CHAPTER TEN
Robin awoke feeling like he’d barely slept. He worked his neck from side to side with a grimace, hearing the tight muscles pop as he made his way to the stream by their camp to wash his face.
Two of his men – friends – had died yesterday. Tuck was in an unnaturally deep sleep, despite the holy relic. And he desperately missed his wife, Matilda, despite their falling out the last time he'd seen her.
He sighed as he knelt on the grass by the gently bubbling water next to the outlaws' camp-site and threw handfuls of the freezing liquid over his face. He wouldn’t let the gloom take him again, he vowed, forcing himself to put his troubles to one side and just enjoy the sights and sounds of the hazy spring morning.
It promised to be a warm one, once the sun climbed high enough to burn away the clouds.
“God give you good morning!” Much wandered over to his friend’s side and mimicked his actions, stooping to wash the grit from his eyes with the fresh water of the stream. “Ah, that feels good!” He grinned, wiping his face with his palms, but his own expression fell as he looked at Robin.
Since his father had been murdered by Wakefield’s previous bailiff Much hadn’t been the joyful young man Robin had known growing up in the village. It wasn’t in his nature to channel his emotions into rage and violence, the way Will Scarlet had done for so long.
Instead, Much had drawn into himself, some days barely managing a smile.
Robin felt guilty as he saw the grin on his friend’s face disappear.
“What are we like?” the young outlaw leader asked, forcing a laugh. “It wasn’t us that were killed by Gisbourne yesterday – we shouldn’t be so morose. Come on!”
He stood up, smiling, and dragged Much up with him by the arm.
“The men won’t want to do much today after James and Paul were done in by that prick Gisbourne, but I don’t want to hang around here feeling down all day. Fancy coming hunting with me? Or fishing?”
Much smiled in return. “Aye, that’d be good. Let’s get our stuff and head out.”
They made their way back to camp and gathered their weapons, along with food and some ale skins.
“Ho, Robin! Off hunting?”
The outlaw captain turned and, instinctively, felt his heart sink as he saw Matt Groves walking towards him. His annoyance turned to guilt though, as he remembered Matt’s ordeal and fortunate escape of the day before, and knew he should have probably been nicer to the man than he’d been at the time.
“Aye, Matt!” he nodded, clapping the older man on the arm. “Me and Much don’t fancy spending the day sitting about feeling sorry for ourselves so we’re going to do some hunting and fishing.”
Groves looked upset, which was most unlike him, and Robin knew the previous day’s meeting with Gisbourne had taken its toll on the sullen outlaw.
“You want to come along with us?”
The words were those of a good leader. A man who wanted to do the best for his men. Yet,
when they were out, Robin kicked himself. He couldn’t fucking stand Matt Groves!
But Matt’s face lit up, as if one of the girl’s at Nottingham’s Maiden’s Head had offered him a freebie. “Aye, that’d be good! Give me a minute to get my longbow.”
He hurried over to his bedroll, as Much rejoined Robin with a questioning frown. Robin simply shrugged and rolled his eyes.
They decided to head southwest, in the direction of Barnsley, hoping to bring down a young deer or at least a few rabbits, before spending some time by the bank of the River Dearne with their ale-skins.
Ah well, Robin mused as they made their way quietly through the undergrowth, the sun just beginning to appear through the clouds and fresh spring foliage. Maybe me and Matt will be able to put aside our past differences and become friends today…
Somehow it didn’t seem likely, but they were on their way now.
* * *
When the bright sunlight coming through a gap in the curtains woke him Stephen cursed as he realised he’d overslept. His mouth felt dry and his head ached.
As the fog in his brain slowly started to lift and fragments of the previous evening returned to him, he desperately reached under the bed, hoping the innkeeper had place a chamber pot there.
Grasping the filthy metal vessel gratefully he dragged it out and dropped to his knees on the hard floorboards, vomiting copiously.
Spitting the last of the bitter bile from his mouth, gasping, he sat back down on the bed guiltily.
He’d been given an important mission to complete, yet here he was, dawn long since broken, wasting time, while Sir Richard fretted back in Kirklees.
There was no sign of the girl and, when he realised he was still fully clothed he sighed, both with relief and disappointment.
He hadn’t broken his vow of chastity then – but she might have been worth it.
Shaking his head ruefully, he collected his belongings, intending to make his way downstairs, down another of those strong local ales and be on his way to Clerkenwell with all haste.
“Shit!” he cursed, as he finally noticed the coin-purse at his belt was gone. “She robbed me!”
He hadn’t been carrying much money, but that wasn’t the point. Furious and embarrassed at the realisation the girl had played him like a gittern he patted the pocket sewn inside his mantle and his blood ran cold.
She’d taken the letter.
He retched into the stinking chamber-pot again, his mind whirling. Maybe he’d put the letter somewhere last night?
Searching the small area frantically, he roared in frustration and hurried from the room.
It was a small inn, which was just as well, as Stephen couldn’t remember making his way from the common-room to his chamber the previous night, but there was only the one narrow corridor leading to the main hall.
His weapons were thankfully still with him, and he placed his left hand on the pommel of his sword as he stormed into the bar, seeing the inn-keeper, Hobb, at one of the tables, eating a large breakfast of bread and cheese.
The man looked up with an obviously guilty expression, but he painted a smile on his round face as the Hospitaller stalked over to him.
“Morning, my lord! You’ll be wanting some breakfast eh?” The stout man stood up and made to move towards the bar area. “An ale, perhaps?”
Stephen moved straight for him, grabbing the man by the throat and shoving him backwards until his spine was bent painfully over the bar.
“The girl. Where does she live?”
“The red-head you were with last night? I don’t know where she lives!” the inn-keeper gasped in fright. “She’s not a regular. I’ve only seen her in here a couple of times. Please, you’re hurting me!”
“I’ve not even started yet, you lying sack of shit,” the sergeant-at-arms growled. “You know who she is. She must have done this before to other guests of yours. Do you get a cut of whatever she steals, eh?” He squeezed Hobb’s throat tighter and the man struggled to free himself, but Stephen was a powerful man who knew how to restrain someone.
“It’s not like that!” the inn-keeper wheezed. “Please – her man’s a maniac. They threatened to burn down my inn if I didn’t let them rob people. The girl gets travellers drunk, steals their purse, and then pays me the room’s rent for the night. I don’t make anything out of it!”
The Hospitaller slowly released the pressure on the man’s neck and let him sink to the ground, where he sat, desperately trying to suck in air.
Stephen walked behind the bar and lifted a mug, filling it from one of the ale casks. He downed it in seconds and refilled it, watching Hobb struggle upright onto the chair beside the table he’d been eating his bread and cheese at.
“Here,” the Hospitaller placed the ale in front of the panting Hobb, who looked at him suspiciously, then gratefully sipped some of it to ease the burning in his throat.
“How long have they been doing this?”
Hobb lowered his head, clearly ashamed of his small part in the scam. “About two months. They’re not from around here. Turned up out of the blue one day, but her man, Jacob, said he was a blacksmith. The village hadn’t had a proper smith since old Simon died close to a year ago, so they were welcomed.”
He sipped some more of the ale, flinching slightly as Stephen stood up, but the sergeant was simply going to get more ale for himself.
“What about her da?”
The inn-keeper looked puzzled for a moment, then shook his head. “The old man that was with her when you came in? That's not her da, just one of the locals. She sits with whoever she pleases and, to be honest, the old men are happy to have company like that for the evening.”
Stephen swallowed his ale with a scowl, rubbing his pounding temples.
“I’m sorry,” Hobb mumbled. “You didn’t lose much money did you?”
“The money’s not the problem. I was carrying a letter and she took it. That letter is, literally, a matter of life and death for my master. So, you can see why I need it back.”
The inn-keeper’s face paled as he understood what Stephen was saying.
“You can’t just go demanding it back, they’ll kill you! Then they’ll kill me!”
Stephen glared at the cowering man. “They’ll have a hard time killing me. As for you, you’d better speak to your village headman, because I will get that letter back. Tell me something – why haven’t the locals run these bastards out of town?”
“Like I said, the village needs a smith. Besides, they only ever target travellers, not locals, and they never steal their clothes or weapons – generally the men wake up and are so ashamed of what’s happened they go on their way without making a fuss.”
Stephen checked his weapons and armour were all fitted securely, and drained the last of his ale, fixing Hobb with an icy stare.
“Well, this time they robbed the wrong man.”
* * *
As the sun reached its zenith and the three outlaws had only managed to shoot a couple of small brown hares, Much muttered about a wasted morning.
“Ach, stop moaning,” Robin laughed at his friend. “Maybe we’ll have better luck fishing.”
Matt snorted. “We can’t go back to camp with nothing but a couple of hares and some fish to show for a day’s work. The lads wouldn’t let us live it down.”
They walked on in gloomy silence for a while longer then Matt spoke quietly, his voice almost reverent. “When I was going to Darton with James and Paul the other day we saw the biggest stag I’ve ever seen. His horns were the size of a house! Herne himself didn’t have horns like that.”
Robin shrugged, liking the idea of relaxing by the riverbank with their ale skins better than chasing about the forest, but Much jumped on Matt’s comment.
“Where did you see this stag?”
Matt’s forehead creased in thought, then he pointed off to the east. “Around Wheatley Wood. Not too far from Darton itself. It saw us though, and buggered off into the trees before any of us coul
d string our bows.”
“Let’s see if we can find it then. Wheatley Wood must be only a couple of miles from here.”
Robin groaned. Walking such a distance, on the off-chance that they might be able to find this great stag, seemed a much poorer choice to him than fishing and drinking by the Dearne. Matt comparing the animal to Herne the Hunter also seemed a bad omen: Robin had become an outlaw at the previous year’s May Day games in Wakefield when their new prior had taken offence to the villagers’ celebration of pagan times. The churchman’s venomous face came back to the young man, glaring around at the villagers.
“Heathens! The lot of you!” the prior had shouted. “Animal sacrifice? Herne the Hunter? Green Men?”
Robin had eventually broken the man’s nose when he’d laid hands on Matilda.
The young wolf’s head would prefer to forget Herne and his great horns.
But Much and Groves, curse him, had altered course and were now heading for Wheatley Wood. Robin grumpily fell into step behind them.
He knew it had been a bad idea to invite Matt along.
* * *
It wasn’t Stephen’s style to come up with some elaborate plan. That was the main reason why he’d never been promoted any higher than a sergeant-at-arms within the Hospitallers.
He didn’t analyse situations in great detail – he was a doer, not a thinker.
So, while Sir Richard-at-Lee would have found some way to get the smith – Jacob – and his female accomplice on their own, somewhere out of sight, to avoid any trouble, Stephen simply followed Hobb’s directions – and the sounds of metal on metal – to the smithy near the outskirts of the village.
There was no sign of the girl, but the bald man with the ginger moustache working the forge was enormous. Standing almost as tall as the outlaw from Barnsdale that people called Little John, the smith’s upper body was bare except for a leather apron. Sweat glistened on his hard arm and chest muscles as he worked a set of bellows, and the Hospitaller knew he had to be wary of the big ox.
The Wolf and the Raven Page 12