The pain was too much now and, mercifully, Robin's body began to shut down, a wave of blackness swamping him as his crazed attacker bore down on him, kicking and battering his unmoving body with the practice sword.
Even the drunk girls on the balcony above had stopped cheering now, as they realised they were witnessing a young man being brutally beaten to death.
The courtyard filled with the sound of stamping feet as Sheriff de Faucumberg and four guardsmen appeared, running towards Gisbourne. The bounty-hunter had to be wrestled to the ground and held down by the guards as the sheriff screamed in rage at him and shouted for a surgeon.
Eventually, Sir Guy came to his senses and the men let him up.
“What the hell are you doing, you fool?” de Faucumberg demanded. “This is my castle, and that is my prisoner! Have you lost your damn mind?”
Gisbourne took a deep breath and puffed out his cheeks, before closing his eyes and exhaling. As he looked into the sheriff's eyes it was clear the madness had left him, but he glanced at the ruined outlaw and shrugged.
“Whether you hang him or not makes no difference to me – King Edward wants him dead however it's done. Looks like your public hanging is off, sheriff.”
The king's man calmly walked from the practice area, placed his wooden sword back in its basket along with the others, and strode into the castle out of sight.
“The man's a lunatic,” de Faucumberg muttered, shaking his head in disbelief, before shouting over to the surgeon who had finally arrived. “If he's not dead already, do what you can for the wolf's head – he must survive until the weekend, so we can hang him.”
* * *
Tuck and Will paid the landlord – a small, skinny man with a terrible red rash on his face – for a room. They weren't entirely sure yet if they'd need it: Will, as usual, wanted them to make their move as soon as possible.
“Don't be impatient,” Tuck scolded him like a naughty child. “We should sit in here for a while and see if we can hear anything about Robin. He's a hero to most of the people in Nottingham; surely someone will be talking about him. We can't just wander around the castle walls at this time of the evening without attracting attention!”
Will knew the friar spoke sense, so they sat nursing two surprisingly fresh ales, pretending to chat but straining to hear other people's conversations.
Thankfully, Tuck was right – the sheriff's capture of Robin Hood was the talk of the place. The outlaws turned their attention to one particular pair of men seated at a table by the window, one of whom appeared to have a brother in the sheriff's guard.
“What's the word on Hood?” a dark-skinned fellow asked the man seated across from him.
“James says he was just coming off duty for the night when that scary bastard Sir Guy of Gisbourne came down to the dungeon looking for Hood. James thought he was looking for another sparring match.”
“I thought he'd already beaten him the other day?”
The guard's brother put down his mug and messily wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Aye, so he did, Godfrey. He had a mad look in his eyes though, or so James said.”
“What happened then?”
“Dunno – James left the castle. I'll tell you tomorrow when he comes back home!”
The men sat silently for a moment, then Godfrey muttered. “I hope Hood gave him a fucking hiding.”
Tuck led Will over to the table the two men were sitting at and addressed them apologetically. “I'm sorry to disturb you, gentlemen,” he began. “Would you mind if me and my brother friar share your table?” He gestured around at the busy inn. “All the tables are occupied.”
The men moved along the bench with respectful nods of their heads, too inebriated to care much who sat with them. “Of course, father. Please, sit.”
Tuck dropped onto the seat beside the guard's brother with a grin of thanks, while Will, hood still up lest anyone recognize him, grunted and gave a small wave of his hand.
“So, Robin Hood eh?” Tuck shook his head sorrowfully. “They say he's a wicked murderer. A blasphemer. A thief. And yet the people seem to love him.”
The dark-skinned man called Godfrey leaned towards the friar earnestly. “The common people love him because he's one of us,” he said. “Aye, Hood's a thief, but he steals from the rich lords and the likes of your bishops. He's done a lot of good for the villages around Yorkshire from what we hear. That's why the sheriff wanted him captured.”
“What about his men though?” Tuck wondered, sipping from his ale. “Won't they try and rescue him?”
“No chance!” The guard's brother shook his head vigorously. “He's locked away in the dungeon. Those outlaws might be good at fighting in the forest, but there's no way into the castle; it's too heavily defended, even if they could get inside the city and through the castle gates. Mind you, tonight would be the time to try – the sheriff's throwing a banquet to celebrate Hood's capture at last.”
Tuck shared a glance with Will, but let the men’s talk move onto other things, while he paid the bar-keep to bring them more ale. It didn't take long for the locals to become quite drunk and the friar neatly steered the conversation back to the sheriff's prisoner.
“When do they plan on hanging the wolf's head?” he wondered.
“Two days,” Godfrey replied sadly. “The sheriff wants as many people as possible to see it or he'd have done it by now. Bastard.”
“Ach, to be fair,” the second man shook his head. “Sir Henry's just doing his job. He's not the worst sheriff we've had in this city – not by a long shot. The outlaws undermined his authority, especially when they killed his man Gurdon last year.”
Tuck saw Will's fingers clench convulsively around his mug – the outlaw had thought Adam Gurdon was his friend and it had hurt him deeply when the man had betrayed them. Thankfully, though, Scarlet remained silent and Simon growled at his friend.
“You're just saying that, Roger, because your brother's one of his guards and hoping to win a promotion. I bet you wouldn’t think so highly of de Faucumberg if he found out about James sneaking out of the castle that time. The sheriff would have him hanged alongside the wicked wolf's head and you know it!”
“Shut up, you idiot,” Roger retorted, glaring furiously at his companion. Although he was well in his cups, he didn't want gossip about his brother getting around the city.
Tuck roared with laughter, and patted Roger on the arm reassuringly. “Never fear, lad. We hear much worse things at confession every day – a friar knows how to keep a secret.” He winked and drained the last of his ale, shouting to the landlord to bring another four mugs.
“It's true,” Godfrey grinned at Tuck. “His brother's lady-friend was leaving to live in Scotland, but James was desperate for one last night of...” he remembered he was talking to clergymen and trailed off sheepishly. “Anyway, he couldn't get the night off, and he couldn't let anyone see him leaving or he'd be in trouble. So he climbed out the latrine on the east wall, then, before anyone noticed he was missing, he climbed back in the same way!”
Tuck's eyes were wide with disbelief as he listened to the tale, and Roger laughed, as the bar-keep placed the fresh ale on the table. “The worst of it is,” Roger leaned over conspiratorially, making sure no one else was listening, “he was covered in shit and filth, so his girl wouldn't touch him!” The laughter left his eyes though and he became thoughtful. “He's a bloody fool. Just as well he made it back inside unseen or they'd have hanged him for leaving his post.”
“Didn't his captain have anything to say about the smell?” Tuck asked.
Roger shrugged. “I think he managed to wash most of the crap off once he got back into the castle, or at least mask the worst of the smell.”
Tuck grinned and, again, turned the conversation onto other things. It was late now, and, once they drained the last of their drinks, the friar and Scarlet bade their new friends goodnight and made their way up to the room the landlord had provided for them.
It
had been a productive evening.
“I hope you don't mind me getting shit and filth all over your spare robe,” Will grinned.
“Not as long as you wash it afterwards!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Do we really have to do this tonight?”
“You heard them,” Will growled, making sure his weapons were all in place and ready under the grey Franciscan robe. “Half the castle will be roaring drunk tonight, while the minstrels and singing will drown out any unusual sounds. There'll also be more strangers than usual about the place; de Faucumberg will have invited all sorts of people for this. So, yes: we have to do this tonight.”
Tuck shook his head. It made sense, but he'd hoped for at least one night in a real bed. “I'm too weak to go climbing up some latrine though; what will I do?”
Will laughed and poked the friar in the belly good-naturedly. “Even at your fittest you wouldn't have been able to climb a latrine, big man.” He shrugged. “I don't know – come with me to find the place in case we run into anyone. You can do your clergyman thing until I deal with them. I'm going to need some light to find handholds too – you can help with that. Then, I suppose it'll be down to me. At least we know Robin's in the dungeon.”
It was an insane plan; they would need God and all his saints on their side if it was to have any chance of success. “Just as well we have this,” Tuck muttered, clenching the holy reliquary in his hand and offering a silent prayer to St Nicholas, patron saint of thieves, which seemed most appropriate.
“Let's move.”
Their room was on the ground floor, so it was a simple matter to open the wooden shutters and climb out onto the street, even for the weakened Tuck. The city was shrouded in darkness, although a gibbous moon cast just enough light for them to move between the buildings. The castle was easy to spot, its great black bulk huge in the darkness, and many small points of yellow light shone from the windows and murder holes. It was an eerie sight and the outlaws felt the hairs on their necks stand up as a chill breeze blew along the slumbering street.
They headed for the east wall, moving silently up the hill that led to it, although Tuck struggled to keep up and was breathing heavily as they drew close to the castle. They had heard others out and about, but found it easy enough to remain unseen in the gloom and, before too long, stood by the massive wall of Nottingham Castle.
The latrine was simple enough to find – the stench was overpowering. Will had no doubt the mountain of shit that must accrue here every day would be used by some tradesman for something or other. They probably paid the sheriff for it too.
“Unbelievable,” Tuck whispered. “A fortress, with walls almost as thick as I am tall, massive iron gates, defended by a garrison of hard men...and anyone that knows about it can climb in through the latrine!”
“I haven't done it yet,” Will cautioned. “Besides, it's not that much of a security risk is it? You have to be inside the city walls to get here – so it's not that much use to an invading army. And who in their right mind wants to break into a castle, using a fucking latrine to do it? It's madness.”
Tuck grinned, the moonlight reflecting off his yellow teeth. “Aye, you're not wrong there. Good luck with that.”
There was a locked door barring the way into the building, but it was wooden and, thanks to the dampness of what it guarded, it was badly rotten. “The lock probably won't give, but the wood might,” Will guessed, leaning down and aiming a kick at the bottom of the barrier, which splintered with a wet thud. Another blow took the bottom half of the door off and, after waiting a while to make sure no one came to investigate the noise, the companions crawled into the stinking toilet.
It was pitch black inside, so Tuck produced the torch he'd taken from their room in the King and Castle and rummaged in his pack for his flint and steel.
“Wait,” Will hissed fearfully, guessing what the friar was doing. “I've heard stories about farts catching fire! You might blow the whole castle up if you light that torch in here!”
Tuck burst out laughing. He couldn't stop himself. The high-pitched sound rang out, bouncing off the steep stone walls, and he bent over, covering his mouth with his hand in an attempt to muffle the sound.
“What's so fucking funny?” Will demanded, trying to keep his voice low. He would have grabbed the friar if he could see him, but the darkness was total inside the fetid room, and he had to wait until the friar came to his senses.
Eventually Tuck wiped the tears from his face and lit the torch. As it flared into life he grinned at his furious companion. “The farts in here have long gone: out the door you kicked in. We're quite safe.”
“Arsehole,” Will growled, prompting another snigger from Tuck.
Thankfully, there was more than one opening in the wall to the latrine. Will only had to climb up one storey before he could make his way inside the castle proper.
The problem was the wall was covered in green slime and white mildew so thick and hairy it looked like it might get up and climb into the castle itself. Will threw a hand up to his mouth and gagged.
“Here.” Tuck handed the ornate reliquary that held Christ's facial hair to his friend. “You're going to need this.”
* * *
Matilda awoke in a sweat, tears streaking her cheeks in the darkness. The house was silent and she absent-mindedly stroked her swollen belly, the nightmare fresh and raw in her mind.
Robin had been in terrible danger, although she had woken up as the great black faceless figure had swept its sword down into his body. She shuddered and pulled the blanket tighter around her, telling herself it was just a dream.
She thought it must be her mind's way of reproaching her for the way she spoke to Robin the last time he'd visited, chasing him off as if she hated him. Which was, of course, nonsense – she loved him! – but the pained look on his face as he'd walked out the door had stayed with her and she wished she could see him to make friends again.
Sighing, she sent a silent message to him to let him know how she felt, hoping, somehow he would hear, or feel it, and closed her eyes to sleep again.
* * *
Climbing the wall of the latrine proved to be every bit as disgusting as Will had feared. Once he had looked at the hand holds, and fixed a mental image of the place in his mind, he told Tuck to extinguish the torch in case someone from the castle came in to relieve themselves and found the outlaws.
They had went back outside and found some old branches with as much foliage still attached as possible which Will used to scrape off whatever filth he could before attempting the climb. The mortar between the stones was old and loose and it was fairly easy for him to find good hand and footholds, but, by the time he was halfway to the opening he was drenched in sweat, not to mention the sticky grime that coated his hands.
He was almost at the top when he heard the creak of a door opening somewhere and he froze, pressing his body instinctively into the filth-encrusted wall, praying he'd be able to hold onto the wall.
The sounds of distant laughter and revelry filtered down through the latrine, and there was a dim glow which cast shadows on the walls, clearly from a torch in the room above.
The loud voices of two drunk men boomed off the stone walls, sharing inanities and laughing at nothing. Suddenly, for just a moment, there was silence, then Will almost screamed with fury as a stream of warm piss hit the top of his head and ran down the back of his neck.
Somehow, the outlaw closed his eyes and clung to his position in outraged silence, as the men above resumed their inebriated conversation and, at last, the stream of urine stopped.
The dim light, and the sound of their voices faded as the door closed behind them, and Scarlet cursed them and their children to the tenth generation. It took him a moment to clear his mind and begin his ascent again.
From the darkness below, Tuck's voice carried cheerfully up to him.
“At least they didn't need a shit.”
* * *
“Do you know how f
ar it is to Pontefract?”
Edmond glanced over at his captive and growled at him nastily. “No, but I know how to get there. We just have to follow the road to Wakefield then continue along and it'll lead us straight there. Then I'll see justice done.”
Sir Richard plodded on for a while, then turned to look back at Edmond. “Pontefract is twenty miles from here. On foot, like this, it'll take us forever to get there.”
The younger man's face fell, then he laughed nervously. “You're lying. Sir Philip wouldn't ask me to take you all that way.”
“Sir Philip was probably expecting you to have a small group of men with you. Or horses. What happens at night, when you have to sleep? Or when you have to do the toilet?”
Edmond didn't reply as they walked along the little path, heading for the main road that would take them east, in the direction of Pontefract.
“I tell you truly, I wish your brother hadn't died. I was just defending myself, as is a man's right. You would have done the same thing in my position.”
Still, Edmond remained silent, tears rolling down his cheeks as he pictured Walter's face in his mind. Poor Walter. His life had been hard, and his death even harder.
“Come, lad,” Richard went on, looking up at the trees as if he was talking to God himself. “You'd be as well killing me now – there's no way you can hold me hostage for the length of this journey. Tell me what Sir Philip is paying you to capture me.”
“It's not just about money, Hospitaller! I wanted to do something brave, and noble, and noteworthy. Something that would show those arseholes in Kirklees that Walter wasn't the useless idiot they made him out to be. The money is just a bonus.”
The knight looked round at Edmond, taking in the stumpy body, large fish-like lips and short limbs. He guessed it wasn't just Walter that had been the butt of the villager's jokes.
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