“Be careful, Will. The most important thing is that you, Tuck and Robin make it back here alive. Don't go looking for revenge for Much. We can deal with that another day.”
Will nodded at his big friend. “Don't worry, I'm not an idiot... If I get the chance though – I'll run that bastard Gisbourne through.”
John smiled as Friar Tuck, swigging from his ale skin and cramming bread into his mouth in a ridiculous attempt to regain his former strength, shouted for Will to get moving.
“Just make sure you come back to us in one piece, Scarlet, you moaning faced bastard.”
* * *
Gareth was true to his word, meeting Will and Tuck on the road to Nottingham with a tired-looking horse.
“Christ, we've got enough money – you could have got us something a bit stronger looking,” Will grumbled, but Tuck laughed and patted the young man on the shoulder.
“You did well, lad. If we turned up at the city gates riding a great charger we'd stick out a mile.” The smiling friar stood by the horse, stroking its mane gently. “This fellow will do us just fine, I'm sure.”
Scarlet gave a grunt and they waved Gareth off as he hurried back through the trees to the camp-site.
“Help me up.” Tuck laid a hand on the saddle and gestured for his companion to give him a shove.
Once mounted, they set off at a faster pace than they'd been able to manage with the weakened Tuck on foot. All being well, they would reach Nottingham within a couple of days.
“Maybe I should have thought this through a bit better,” Will muttered, a rueful smile on his round face. “The guards might recognise me at the gates, or in the city.”
“My body might have lost some of its vigour while I was out of it,” Tuck replied, reaching for the pack he carried and pulling something from it. “My mind, thankfully, still works fine. Here.”
He threw the object at Will, who caught it and opened it out with a grin. It was a grey robe, the same as the one Tuck was wearing. “My spare clothes,” the Franciscan nodded. “Try not to lose it or get too much blood on it.”
“You're a genius, Tuck!” Will threw the robe on over his head and pulled the hood up, his face instantly becoming lost in shadow. It was an ideal disguise.
“True,” the friar agreed with a nod. “I deserve something as a reward.” Reaching into his pack again he pulled out some strips of salted beef and grunted in satisfaction as he began chewing.
“Aye,” Will agreed grimly. “Reward yourself as much as you can – you're going to need your strength back when we try to get Robin out of the city...”
They made good time and reached Nottingham just before nightfall the next day, when the sun was low in the sky. The air was cold with a light rain and a gentle wind making it feel even cooler, while the fading light cast long shadows on the road behind the two travellers as they approached the city's northern gatehouse.
They had made good use of their time on the road, thinking of a back-story for Will. The former mercenary had fought in the Holy Land with French armies as well as English, and picked up a little of the foreign tongue there.
“You can pretend to be a visiting French friar,” Tuck told him. “The guards won't be able to understand what you're saying anyway. And if you throw in the odd Latin phrase it'll fool them long enough for us to get past and into the city.”
Will nodded. “We'll find an inn near the castle and see if the local gossips know anything about Robin.”
“You two – halt!” A loud voice boomed at them from above and Tuck looked up to see the guard, while Will kept his head down and under his hood in case the setting sun showed his face too clearly.
“It's late. What do you want?”
“We're travelling friars, my son,” Tuck shouted back in a voice almost as powerful as the guardsman's, and Scarlet smiled. It seemed his weak companion was indeed growing stronger after his recent ordeal. “We seek to spend the night in your city, before we set off on the morrow to Canterbury.”
The sound of talking, muffled by the massive stone walls, filtered down to the travellers, before the city gate was slowly opened and another guard gestured them impatiently inside. He gave them a cursory look, and waved them through as Tuck grinned and Will made the sign of the cross while mumbling, “Gratias tibi ago,” at the bored looking man.
It was as simple as that. The guard gave them a wave and ran up the stairs to where his fellows huddled around a brazier at the top of the gatehouse, and the two outlaws entered Nottingham.
Although it was getting late, people still bustled about the place, while children ran between them, screaming playfully, and mangy-looking dogs sniffed at the travellers hoping for a scrap or two.
Tuck asked a local man if there were any taverns near the castle and the pair set off in the direction the man pointed to obtain a room for the night before the weather got any worse.
“I hope they have some good thick beef stew,” the friar smiled, rubbing his shrunken belly. “Can't beat some good red meat for building up your strength.”
When they reached the inn – so close to the castle you could actually see its great bulk dominating the skyline from the front door – they made sure their palfrey was comfortable in the rickety old stable that was attached to the building and hurried inside gratefully.
Scarlet's stomach rumbled loudly at the thought of food and he pictured in his mind's eye a cosy inn with a roaring fire, beautiful serving-girls and barrels full of freshly brewed ale.
It wasn't to be.
“Ah, bollocks!” Will cursed quietly as the stench hit him and his eyes took in the sight of the King and Castle common room. Smoke from the fire filled the place, while the rushes on the floor hadn't been changed in days. He carefully avoided a stinking, dried up patch of vomit and followed Tuck to the bar, noting the toothless old barmaid – breasts hanging almost to her knees – with a rueful shake of his head.
Fuck it. At least the place had a roof.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Ah, Gisbourne!” Sir Henry de Faucumberg grinned and slapped the king's bounty-hunter on the arm. The sheriff's eyes were slightly glassy and it was obvious he'd had a glass or three of wine. “Good job capturing the wolf's head – I'm certain the king will reward you handsomely. I'm hosting a feast tonight to celebrate Hood's incarceration and imminent doom. I trust you will be joining us?”
Gisbourne glowered at the sheriff, still unhappy at the man for stealing his thunder at the city gates. De Faucumberg had a point though – King Edward would reward him well for his work here, and he, along with his sergeant, Nicholas, could leave this place. It wasn't that Gisbourne particularly disliked Yorkshire or Nottingham, but now that the notorious outlaw was safely locked up, there was no challenge left here. The Raven was a man who liked to pit his wits, and his sword arm, against the best – against those criminals no one else could stop.
“Aye,” he agreed, forcing himself to smile back at the sheriff. “We have much to celebrate. The outlaw will hang, the king will look upon us both with favour, and I can move on. I'm sure that will please you as much as it pleases me.”
De Faucumberg looked confused. “Move on?”
“Indeed,” Gisbourne nodded. “Robin Hood is no longer a threat to anyone. I was sent here to kill or capture him, and my job is done. As fine as your hospitality has been,” he smirked as the sheriff frowned at the sarcastic tone, “the north of England is a boring place and I'll be glad to get back to London. Who knows where I'll end up next? Hopefully somewhere warm, with a little more culture, like the Languedoc maybe.”
The sheriff shook his head, a smile of his own playing on his lips. “My good man, I don't think you understand the situation. The king sent you here to take care of Hood – but his gang are still out there. You will be going nowhere until the rest of them are hanging from the gallows outside the city.”
Gisbourne snorted. “I caught the ringleader, de Faucumberg. I also killed the fat friar and at least two more of them. Sure
ly you can capture the rest of the scum? I'm a bounty-hunter, not a damned forester.”
The sheriff shrugged, enjoying the moment as Gisbourne grew increasingly angry. “I have the king's orders, Sir Guy – you are to remain here until the forests heareabouts are cleared of outlaws and rebels. It seems King Edward sees you as a forester, eh?”
The smug look on de Faucumberg's face enraged Gisbourne and he burned to smash his fist into the man's throat. With an effort he controlled himself and stalked stiffly away, the sheriff's snigger ringing in his ears.
Damn the man, and damn the king!
The sounds of revelry echoed along the stone corridors, blackening his mood even further, and before he even knew where he was going he found himself at the iron door to the dungeon.
“Bring the prisoner,” he growled to one of the two guardsmen.
“Which one, my lord?”
“Which one d'you fucking think, you oaf? Hood!”
The man nodded, well used to his betters talking down to him, and hurried along the gloomy hallway to fetch the wolf's head.
Sir Guy of Gisbourne hadn't always been the ruthless, brooding bounty hunter he was now. As a young man he had been quite pleasant and well-liked around his home town. He had a stable family life as an only-child, his father being one of King Edward I's keepers of the peace while his doting mother looked after the household affairs. Young Guy had loved and respected both of his parents a great deal, particularly his mother who would tell him bedtime stories about King Arthur and the quest for the Holy Grail.
An able student, he'd done well in his schooling, while lacking the required interest in the subjects to ever truly excel. Still, with the help of his influential father, he had begun working as a hayward and was on his way to becoming a well-respected local official.
Life had suited him like that. He wasn't particularly ambitious back then and he had no destructive vices. He had a natural aptitude for fighting, but it had never interested him beyond childhood games with friends, pretending to be Sir Lancelot. Even the military training his father had paid an old mercenary to give him hadn't made him want to become a soldier.
Things had changed when he met Emma.
A stunning, fair-haired girl, she had come with her father – a well-off merchant – and her younger sister, to live in Gisbourne when Guy was seventeen and she a year younger.
The innocent teenage hayward had been smitten by her easy smile, playful nature and her infectious lust for life and the pair had been married just months after meeting for the first time at one of Guy's father's parties.
Unfortunately, Emma's playfulness wasn't confined to her relationship with her new husband, and her lust extended to more than just life.
Within six months, Guy and his wife's adultery were the talk of the village and the young man was crushed by it. The sneers, the mocking laughter when he walked past, the loss of respect of the workers he was in charge of...it had all been hard to bear, but not as hard to bear as the knowledge Emma didn't care for him the way he did for her.
He'd begged her to be faithful, to stop seeing other men behind his back, but still it continued.
His father and other men of the village had told him to beat some obedience into her – she was his woman and should be made to obey him, yet here she was making him a laughing stock!
But, to this day, Guy was never the type of man to physically assault a woman even when she was ruining his life as Emma was doing.
The situation had continued for almost two years, his wife becoming ever more brazen and unrepentant over her affairs while the villagers' view of Guy had moved from mockery to pity.
Then one night Emma had gone a step further than before and brought a man back to their house. Guy had walked in after his day's work and found her astride the man, a middle-aged local shopkeeper with a pot-belly.
That was the day Guy of Gisbourne finally snapped and his aptitude for violence became brutally apparent.
The case had never come to the bailiff's attention, thanks to his father's influence, although murdering a man who was fucking your wife in your own house was hardly a crime anyway.
From that day on though, Guy had become a different person.
It had felt good to deal out justice with his own hands. The respect he'd lost over the past two years had been won back in the space of a few short, bloody minutes. The village children no longer hooted at him when he walked past, and the men who had formerly looked at him with contempt now averted their eyes fearfully when he glared at them.
He'd thrown Emma out of their home although even now he was still legally wed to her, then he had sold the house and, with a letter of recommendation from his father, gone to London to find employment.
Starting as an assistant to one of the city bailiff's Guy had performed his duties with relish and eventually come to the attention of the king's own chamberlain who hired the brooding young man to work on behalf of Edward II himself.
Gisbourne shook his head ruefully as he thought back on it all now. Things could have been so different if Emma had just been a loving wife. They would have had children – lots of them – and, once he had saved enough money, lived in a big house by the River Ribble which was something he'd dreamt of since childhood. He'd always loved being close to water, particularly the Ribble where he'd spent many hours with friends as a child, fishing and sailing little wooden boats.
He would have been content.
As the notorious young wolf's head was led along the hallway towards him, Sir Guy's fingers tightened around his sword hilt and he pushed the old dreams from his mind. His life had turned out differently to how he would have chosen, but he was exceptionally good at his job. Good at bringing justice to those who flouted the law, like this boy Hood.
Well, Gisbourne was going to bring his own form of justice to the big bastard now.
Robin walked like a dead man as he was led along the dimly-lit stone corridor towards the bounty-hunter standing in the shadows.
“I'll take him from here,” the king's man told the guard, who tried to object – his orders from the sheriff were to make sure Hood stayed locked safely away – but the furious, slightly insane, stare Gisbourne threw him turned the man's blood cold and he backed away, hands raised placatingly.
“Right, wolf's head. Move it. You know the way to the practice area. You're going to show me what you're made of, or in the name of Christ, you won't make it to the gallows alive.”
The practice area was empty; the guards were all either at their posts or joining in with the feast which was now under way. The entire courtyard seemed eerily silent as Gisbourne and his captive walked out onto the grass and the bounty-hunter lifted a pair of wooden swords.
“I noticed the spark of hatred in your eyes when you saw me there, wolf's head. There's no one else here – if you're man enough, you can kill me and probably walk right out of the castle before anyone notices.” He tossed a sword to Robin, who caught it and gazed at his tormentor.
Robin knew there was no chance of escape – the guards wouldn’t allow him to walk past them when they saw him approaching the gatehouse, but there was a possibility of killing this black-clad bastard and the thought made the blood pound in his veins.
Gisbourne smiled as he saw the colour rise in the outlaw's face, and moved in to try a thrust, but Robin sidestepped and moved backwards, trying to work some strength into his muscles. He hadn't slept properly for days, and the cold, damp cell floor had made his whole body ache, not to mention the psychological torment he'd suffered recently.
Gisbourne aimed another blow at his opponent’s side, which was again parried, but Robin was slow and before he knew it Gisbourne had reversed his strike and hammered the heavy wooden sword into Robin's ribcage.
Crying out in agony as he felt bones crack, the outlaw transferred the practice weapon to his left hand so he could clutch his injured side.
Gibourne was in no mood for mercy though, and attacked with a flurry of strokes which Ro
bin desperately managed to parry until, inevitably, Gisbourne landed another blow, this time on Robin's thigh, deadening the limb.
Roaring in pain again, the young outlaw tried to move back, away from Sir Guy, in an attempt to buy some time for the pain from his injuries to hopefully lessen.
“You were supposed to be a test for me, peasant,” Gisbourne spat in disgust. “But you're nothing. You fight like any other farmer. Will you be more of a challenge for me if you're angry? What if I tell you the king won't let me leave here until I've hanged every one of your band of friends?”
Robin, hoping to stall for as much time as possible, tried to laugh but the pain from his damaged ribs made him grimace. “Good luck with that. If Will doesn't kill you, Little John'll do it.”
“The angry man and the giant,” Gisbourne feinted left as he spoke and Robin, in his exhausted and injured state found it impossible to defend himself as the edge of the lawman's wooden sword cracked off his face and he fell to the ground, dazed and almost passing out from the blow. “I'll kill them both, just like I'm going to kill you. Fuck de Faucumberg and his show trial, I'm going to finish this now!”
By now, the celebration inside the castle was in full swing, and the joyful sounds of drunken revelry filled the courtyard. The young women who had cheered Gisbourne in his previous fight here had again come to the balcony and squealed delightedly at the sight of the outlaw being beaten so viciously.
As Robin unsteadily rose to his feet, the sheriff appeared on the balcony, shoving his way past the women to see what they were all watching. When he saw the state of his prisoner, and Gisbourne's body language, he ran back into the castle, roaring for the guards.
“Fight me!” Sir Guy shouted, punching the hilt of his sword into Robin's nose. Blood spurted onto his hand as the outlaw fell on his backside, grimacing up in pain and hatred at his persecutor.
“Fight back!” Oblivious to the fact Robin was almost unconscious and in no state to defend himself never mind retaliate, Gisbourne came in again, swinging his wooden blade down into his opponent’s sword hand.
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