The Wolf and the Raven

by Steven A McKay

  “You.” Stephen strode up to the front of the workshop and fixed the smith with a calm gaze. He rested his left hand on the pommel of his sword, but made no threatening moves. “I don’t have the time or inclination to talk about this with you. I want the letter your slut of a wife stole from me.”

  Jacob’s eyes glanced at the villagers working and passing nearby. He didn’t look at all frightened by the imposing sergeant-at-arms clad in chain mail in front of his shop, but Stephen guessed his unconscious look around at the locals betrayed his desire to avoid a scene in public. The blacksmith had a good thing going here, and clearly didn’t want to jeopardise it.

  The big man calmly wiped the sweat from his brow and walked around his forge, removing his apron as he went and tossing it onto his workbench.

  Some of the locals had stopped to watch what was happening, muttering to each other with interest. They all knew, or had heard rumours, about the smith and his shameful wife, and the sight of this grizzled soldier coming to take the enormous Jacob to task was something no one wanted to miss. The couple were tolerated because the villagers needed nails made, weapons or tools mended and horses shod, but they weren’t liked.

  Especially the smith’s red-haired wife. The local women hated her for her beauty and flirtatious manner, totally unbecoming in a Christian lady. They also hated her because they could see their husbands eyeing her lustfully every time she walked past.

  As the smith walked out of his workshop, meaty hands raised placatingly towards the Hospitaller, a crowd of neighbouring women began to form, clustering in little groups to talk in low voices as they watched the scene with disapproving looks.

  They were loving it, Stephen knew. Well, he’d give them something to enjoy if this big bastard didn’t hand over the letter and his money.

  “My lord” – the smith began as he came closer to the angry sergeant, but Stephen cut him off, pulling his sword from its leather sheath and pointing it towards Jacob’s groin as the gossiping women squealed in obvious delight and children ran off to spread the word amongst the rest of the villagers.

  “I’m not a lord, and I told you: I don’t have time to talk about this. I want that letter back, or I’ll” –

  “You’ll what?” Jacob laughed. “You wanted to share a bed with my wife, Helena, did you?” The crowd gasped in outrage at that, and the smith, apparently enjoying himself raised his voice over the muttering. “Aye, tried to get her drunk and took her back to his room to try and put his seed inside her, this so-called soldier of God!”

  Stephen hadn’t expected things to go like this, and he mentally kicked himself for not thinking things through before he barged in, sword drawn.

  “Now he’s angry because he got drunk and lost something, and he’s turned up here to blame my good wife. Aye, she told me all about it this morning, Hospitaller! She fought you off and made her way home to me, while you must have passed out after all the ale you’d had. You’re a disgrace to your Order!”

  The men in the crowd muttered angrily, glaring at Stephen. This wasn’t going well at all, he realised. The sorceress hadn’t just bewitched him last night, she’d bewitched all the men of the village too, and now they were going to take the side of the lying smith!

  He looked around warily, watching for signs of an attack, as the blacksmith gave him a smug look and some of the men began to move forward menacingly, no doubt to try and restrain him.

  Oh fuck, the Hospitaller thought to himself as he hefted his sword defensively, glancing around to see where the first attack would come from. This isn’t going to go down too well with the Prior. Or Sir Richard.

  “You’re a filthy liar, Jacob!”

  Stephen's gaze flicked to the left, as an overweight woman shoved her way through the watching crowd, past the surprised men in front of her. She must have been a good-looking girl in her youth, Stephen thought, but she’d lost her figure through time and, no doubt, a few childbirths.

  “Everyone in Finchley knows your wife’s a whore!”

  The smith’s face was dark with rage, but he held his silence as more of the local women pushed past their men to stand by their portly leader.

  “You tell him, Mary, it’s time someone did!” one of the women bellowed, ordering her mortified husband to shut-up as she forced her way through the throng to stand by her neighbour.

  “Your wife, Helena, gets travellers so drunk they can barely stand up,” Mary shouted indignantly. “Flutters her long eyelashes at them, flashes her tits, and then steals their purses from them when she gets them alone.”

  The smith, almost foaming at the mouth, spotted Mary’s husband in the crowd and shouted at him. “You better shut your wife’s mouth, Alfred. I’ll not hit a woman, but I’ve no problem breaking your face!”

  Stephen found himself grinning as the crowd howled indignantly at the smith’s loss of control. Things were definitely swinging back in his favour, he thought.

  Jacob looked over at him, furiously, and tensed himself to move forward to attack the sergeant-at-arms, but Mary and her cronies, fuelled by their righteous anger, crowded in on the big smith, pointing their fingers and yelling, feeding on each other’s outrage.

  The Hospitaller slid his sword back into its sheath as he realised the danger to him had passed. The villagers – thanks to the petty jealousy of a few vocal women – were on his side.

  He folded his arms, watching the scene unfold in front of him with satisfaction.

  He was surprised a moment later to find himself face-down on the hard earth of the street, the back of his head exploding with pain.

  * * *

  By the time they reached Wheatley Wood Robin was sweating heavily. For some reason Matt had set a much brisker pace than seemed necessary, but, although he was their leader, Robin was still a proud young man, full of bravado, and didn’t like to show any sign of discomfort so he simply matched Matt’s hasty stride without complaint.

  He was damned if he couldn’t keep up with a man more than double his age.

  “Christ, I’m sweating like a Templar on Friday the 13,” Much grunted. “Are we nearly there yet, Matt?”

  Groves had been looking around constantly for the past while, his eyes looking for landmarks, and he nodded in satisfaction as they finally reached the main road through the forest. “Aye, this is the spot.”

  Robin wondered at the bright, almost manic stare in the older man’s eyes, and then his blood ran cold as a number of armed men appeared from behind the foliage around them.

  His eyes were drawn instinctively to the black-armoured, smiling man holding the crossbow. “Gisbourne..!”

  “Well met, Hood.” Sir Guy bowed with a flourish, never taking his eyes from England’s most wanted wolf’s head. “This time, I’m afraid you won’t be escaping. Drop your weapons.”

  Much glared at Matt Groves, his face scarlet with rage. “You sold us out you arsehole!”

  “Aye, I did,” Matt retorted fiercely, turning from Much to fix Robin with an angry glare. “You’ve brought us nothing but trouble since you appeared, Hood. Lording it over the rest of us as if you were the king, or Hugh Despenser himself! Well, no more, you little prick! Sir Guy here will see you hung like the scum you are, and I get a pardon for my trouble.”

  “What about the rest of the men?” Much shouted. “How can you betray the men who’ve been like brothers to you for so long?”

  Gisbourne cut in, shaking his head with a bored expression. “Matt here didn’t tell us where the rest of your men are hiding. They’re not important to me. The king demanded I bring him the head of Robin Hood, and now I have him.” He waved his black crossbow towards Robin and Much. “Take them.”

  As Gisbourne's soldiers moved in Groves took a step back, smiling wickedly.

  Much, totally enraged, felt the hurt and tension of the previous year exploding inside him. His right hand dropped to his belt and he whipped his sword from its simple leather sheath.

  Time slowed to a crawl for Robin as his c
hildhood friend’s face twisted in a feral scowl, teeth bared and eyes bulging as he lunged forward, but Matt, still a dangerous man despite his middle-age, saw the attack coming.

  Flicking his own sword out and around in time to deflect the blow, Groves rammed his forehead forward into Much’s face, shattering the young man’s nose.

  Much stumbled backwards, reeling, and Robin heard the click as Gisbourne pulled the trigger on his crossbow. The bolt hammered into Much’s chest just as Groves leaned forward, placing his body weight onto his right leg, and shoved the point of his sword into the miller’s son’s stomach.

  Robin screamed. It wasn’t a battle cry; it was a mournful sound, as he watched the young man who had been his friend throughout his whole life die in agony.

  By the time Robin realised he should fight back, someone had come up behind him and battered the pommel of their sword into the base of his skull, throwing him to the ground, stunned.

  The attacker dropped onto his spine, pressing him into the forest floor, as others grasped his arms and legs, holding him fast.

  As the dark figure of Sir Guy of Gisbourne approached, Robin felt tears coursing down his face and he struggled to rise. To fight. To kill this bastard people called The Raven.

  “Leave the dead one for the crows, and bind this one,” Gisbourne growled, looking down at the young outlaw with a satisfied smile. “It seems we have a wolf’s head to hang.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  For the second time that day, Stephen awoke with a throbbing head and a moan of pain.

  His hand moved to the back of his skull and he felt, through the bandage someone had applied, a tender lump half the size of a hen’s egg.

  “You’re lucky she never cracked your skull,” someone told him, and he flicked his eyes to the dimly lit corner of the room. “If she’d found a bigger rock you wouldn’t be here now. Crazy bitch.”

  It was the heavy woman from earlier – the loud one – Mary, was it? This must be her house, Stephen realised.

  “Where are they?” he growled, swinging his legs over the side of the pallet he’d been lifted onto and getting to his feet somewhat unsteadily.

  “Gone.” Mary nodded in satisfaction, putting down the threadbare cloak she was mending and leaning forward so the dim light of the cooking fire illuminated her round features. “After that little slut hit you with the rock, we ran the pair of them out of town. The men weren’t too happy at losing a blacksmith, but we couldn’t have them here any more. They were wicked. Finchley’s a God-fearing village, and they were turning the place into a den of sin!”

  She filled a cup with ale and handed it to the Hospitaller but he waved it away. “I’ve had enough of the ale in this place,” he muttered. “Do you have any water, lady?”

  As she moved to fetch him a drink, he asked where Jacob and his wife had gone. “They have a hugely important letter from my lord,” he told her. “I must get it back.”

  “You could try searching their house,” Mary shrugged, pushing the mug of cool water into his hand. “They weren’t given much time to collect their belongings – the villagers were in a right fury.”

  Aye, stirred up by you, Stephen thought to himself, imagining the scene.

  “There’s a good chance your letter will still be there.”

  He handed her back the empty cup with a word of thanks and asked her to point him towards the blacksmith’s newly-vacated home, shading his eyes from the early afternoon sun as he went. He cursed as he noticed the positions of the shadows, realising he must have been unconscious for an hour or two. He couldn’t afford to lose this time – Sir Richard was depending on him, in the name of Christ!

  It only took a short time to reach the house, a small, single-storey wooden building with a poorly-thatched roof, where he found a man and a young boy of about nine years old.

  “Ah, the good knight,” the man smiled apologetically as Stephen walked across. “I’m the headman – Baldwin. This is my son, Geoffrey. I’m truly sorry for the terrible time you’ve had in our village” –

  “Forget it,” Stephen interjected. “It was my own fault. I’m here to search for a letter those two stole from me. May I?” He pushed his way inside, eyes scanning the single low room.

  “You’re welcome to look,” Baldwin replied, “but me and the lad have already searched the place and put anything valuable aside for the village. We never saw any letter, did we?” He glanced at the boy, who agreed with his father in a small, high-pitched voice.

  The house had few items of furniture, so it only took a few moments for Stephen to be sure his letter wasn’t hidden anywhere. He swore colourfully, and the little boy grinned on hearing a new word to tell his friends.

  “Which direction did they go?” the sergeant-at-arms asked, his patience now wearing very thin.

  “They took the road south, brother knight,” the headman pointed vaguely. “I heard the girl saying something about London. A place called Clarkson, or Clarking, I didn’t really catch it right.”

  “Clerkenwell?” Stephen demanded in astonishment, and Baldwin nodded.

  “Aye, that was it, I think. You know it?”

  One of them must have been able to read. They were taking Sir Richard’s letter to the Prior!

  Why, though? What could they gain from it?

  His blood ran cold as it dawned on him. They were going to make up some story about him – probably say he raped the girl, the blacksmith knocked him out and they found the letter on him. They’d be hoping for a reward.

  Stephen knew exactly how believable that red-headed girl could be. The Prior would excommunicate him! And God knows what would happen to Sir Richard.

  “I have to stop them!” he roared, racing back to the Wheatsheaf for his horse, calling over his shoulder at the bewildered headman. “Were they on foot?”

  “No – they had a good looking palfrey. Just the one mind.”

  Only one mount between them, but a head-start of at least an hour.

  There was no choice though – he had to stop them before they reached Clerkenwell!

  * * *

  Sir Richard took a long pull of his watered wine and gazed out over the battlements at the land around his stronghold.

  Stephen had been gone a week – he should, hopefully, be on his way back home with good news from Prior L’Archer. The letter Sir Richard had sent virtually guaranteed the old man would do something to help the commander of Kirklees.

  Sir Richard hated to resort to blackmail, but what other choice did he have? He’d kept the prior’s secret for ten years, never telling anyone else about it. And he’d take it to his grave too, as long as L’Archer made himself useful and did something to help him.

  He took another sip of the wine and heaved an irritated sigh.

  “I’m bloody sick of sitting here in this castle by myself,” he growled, standing up and striding purposefully down the stairs to the armoury.

  The king’s men had returned to the castle only once since Stephen had ridden out, and their last visit was four days ago. They had clearly given up on taking the Hospitaller.

  Well, he’d had enough of eating tough salted meat and dried fruit. He lifted a hunting bow from its place on the wall, and stuck a few arrows into his belt. A nice young rabbit would make a fine stew with some of the pickled vegetables in his undercroft, which he made his way through now, carrying a torch to light his way.

  Making his way past the barrels, sacks, bottles and jars of stored food to the far corner of the cool, dark room he placed the smoky torch in an iron holder on the wall and, rolling a heavy barrel out of the way, found the trapdoor, just big enough for one man to fit through.

  A heavy bolt held it locked, so he undid it quickly and lifted the thick wooden door open. He kept the hinges greased with goose-fat so it opened silently and he lifted the torch again, using it to illuminate the pitch-black stairway underneath.

  He grinned as he remembered when he first took over the commandery here in Kirklees and his bot
tler – a local man named Luke – had told him of the existence of this secret passageway out of the castle. At first he had planned on closing it off: filling the tunnel with rubble and sealing the entrances, but he had eventually decided against it. Yes, it compromised the castle’s security somewhat – but it would take a battering ram to break through the doors and he knew from past experience an extra escape route might be useful one day.

  He had never used it before – he’d never had to. But it was coming in handy now.

  He couldn’t have simply raised the great iron portcullis and walked out the huge oak front doors. With no way to seal the entrance behind him, and no retainers to guard the place, the king’s men – or anyone else passing by – could have simply walked in and taken control of the castle without a fight.

  He made his way along the damp, narrow corridor stooping as he went since the ceiling was only as high as his shoulders, until, after a short time, he reached an iron door – again, bolted from the inside.

  He undid the crude, but sturdy, locks and pushed the door to, squinting as the bright sunlight flooded the little passageway and the sounds of birds and insects came to him on a gust of fresh air, which he sucked in greedily.

  The doorway was well hidden behind a thick clump of gorse and juniper bushes and he shoved his way through the foliage, swatting branches out of the way with his hand and revelling in the sense of freedom.

  The thought gave him pause, as he reflected on the fate that awaited him should the king’s men capture him. Days, weeks, months in a tiny cell, with only rats and his own shit and piss to keep him company…

  “Let them try!” he smiled grimly, touching a hand to the hilt of his sword instinctively, then, looking around and, spotting a pair of little brown hares lounging on the grass he pulled an arrow silently from his quiver and slid his bow into his left hand.

  An hour or two, hunting in the sunshine, then he’d return to the castle, cook up a nice, fresh stew and finish the wine he’d started earlier. Only this time he’d not water it down. He might even have a go on the old citole he’d been trying to learn for the past six years.