The Wolf and the Raven

by Steven A McKay

  John waved a meaty hand at the man. “Go on then, I know who he is and we don't have all day. We've got more of your mates to hunt down and butcher.”

  The guard ignored the taunt, although his two fellows fidgeted and eyed the outlaws nervously.

  “Sir Guy of Gisbourne will fight Robin Hood in a duel. To the death. If your mate wins, he will be pardoned.”

  “Fuck off,” John growled. “We've heard a story like that before from de Faucumberg last winter, and he double-crossed us. We're not going down that road again.”

  The previous year, not long before Christmas, the sheriff had promised a pardon for Robin's wife, Matilda, but had set a trap to kill the entire outlaw gang when they turned up to make the deal. John knew their leader wasn't stupid enough to make the same mistake twice, even if he'd been fit enough to fight “the Raven”.

  “This won't be like that,” the guard retorted. “Hood can name the time and place of the duel, and your men can escort Sir Guy to it if you like.”

  The rest of the outlaws laughed and shook their heads. “Do you think we were born yesterday?” Allan-a-Dale demanded. “What's to stop us just slipping a blade between your damn Raven's ribs once we have him?”

  The guard shrugged. “If you do that, Hood doesn't get his pardon.”

  “And if Gisbourne wins?” John shouted. “Why would we let him go? What's to stop us from killing him then?”

  The soldier cursed. “I'm just delivering the message I was told to deliver.”

  “Let's kill these pricks and get back to camp,” Peter, one of the men who had been on the raft with Much not so long ago, growled. The others muttered their agreement. The sun would set soon and they all wanted to get back for some warm food and a few ales. They'd had their victory for today and it felt good – now they wanted to celebrate, not bandy words with de Faucumberg's flunkies.

  “Sir Guy's captain, Nicholas Barnwell, will meet you to discuss the terms if you agree.” The guard, understanding his time was rapidly running out, shouted at Little John, desperation beginning to creep into his voice which had, until then, been somewhat arrogant.

  John waved his laughing men to silence. “Fine. I can't speak for Robin: he does that for himself. But I won't refuse any chance of a pardon for one of us, even if it hinges on some ridiculous “duel” like this. You can go. Get back to the sheriff and Gisbourne and tell them we'll talk to Robin about this.”

  The three surviving guardsmen heaved an audible sigh of relief and began to inch their way along the path.

  “You're going the wrong way,” Allan grinned, shaking his head in disbelief. “Nottingham's that way.”

  The men halted their progress and silently moved back in the direction the fighting-minstrel had indicated, eyes warily fixed on the outlaws.

  “Tell them to send you back with the terms,” John said to their leader.

  “How will I find you?”

  “Don't worry about that: we'll find you, boy. Now get moving.”

  The three, sensing the danger pass, turned and began to make their way at a trot along the path back to the city.

  As they went, Allan-a-Dale took his longbow from his back, pulled the hemp bowstring from the little pouch where he stored it and nodded at Peter to do the same. Sliding an arrow from his belt he fitted it and, waiting on Peter to match him, took aim and shot into the soldier on the left's back, directly between the shoulder blades. Peter's shot took the rightmost guardsman in the lower back.

  As the last surviving soldier turned, eyes wide with shock and fear at the sight of his fallen companions, Allan aimed another arrow at him and shouted, “Run you bastard!”

  “Let's get back to camp,” Little John grunted as the man sprinted into the trees in terror, shaking his head ruefully at the killings. “Maybe this'll be exactly what Robin needs.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  He should have known better.

  When he returned to Kirklees, sick at heart over his brother's death and his part in the capture of Sir Richard-at-Lee, Edmond had hoped to at least continue with his life as before.

  The small reward Sir Philip had given him had been enough to provide a burial for his brother – whose corpse he'd carried back to the village from outside Sir Richard's castle by himself – and at least repair or upgrade some of his father's old tanning equipment.

  He'd repainted the sign that hung above the shop-front to try and make things look a little nicer and had the local carpenter mend the vats they used to treat the animal skins.

  But the loss of his brother played on his mind constantly. His life had been fairly unhappy so far, but he had never, until now, felt lonely, not even when his young wife had died. He'd never loved her, it had been a marriage of convenience for both bride and groom and he'd shed few tears when she'd succumbed to fever a few months into their marriage.

  He had loved Walter though, and had felt he was needed in the world while his brother was around looking for someone to take care of him.

  But now...he felt unloved and useless.

  Working every day, enduring the same old stares from the other villagers – pity, distaste, amusement – only to go home to an empty house with nothing but local ale to brighten the gloom. For a little while at least, until the brew took effect and left him feeling even worse.

  Anyone else would have been a hero! He'd captured one of the rebel leaders – a knight! – and been rewarded by the king's man. He had expected the people of Kirklees to look at him with respect in their eyes when he returned from Pontefract and began telling his customers what had happened.

  Instead, the villagers had shunned him even worse than before. Sir Richard had been a good lord to them, and the people didn't like the fact the unpleasant-looking young tanner from the God-accursed family had somehow beaten the Hospitaller in combat then betrayed him to some faceless agent of the unpopular King Edward II.

  The fact that most of the Kirklees men had been out with the bounty-hunters trying to capture their erstwhile lord didn't seem to make any difference.

  He paused, threw a hide into the big vat of urine he used to strip his animal-skins of hair, and took a swallow from the ale-skin at his side. He hadn't been much of a drinker before, but had gradually started to rely on it to get him through the days. “Shit.” He cursed as the last few drops spilled into his mouth, and a passer-by, already wrinkling his nose in disgust at the smell from Edmond's workshop, situated on the very outskirts of town because of the hellish stench, threw him an angry look.

  “Damn you to hell,” he shouted at the man who, knowing the tanner could use his fists as well as anyone in the village, ducked his head and hurried on his way, muttering under his breath.

  Edmond pulled the cover over the vat of urine, wiped his hands on his apron, and locked his shop behind him.

  If he didn't have any ale left, he'd have to go to the inn for some.

  Kirklees had a proper inn, rather than just a house one of the villagers brewed ale in as in many other villages around the country.

  Edmond shook his head angrily, as he realised it had been Sir Richard who had funded the building of the inn, after the people had petitioned him to build one for them.

  He walked along the road, ignoring the hooted laughter and catcalls of children too young to work, but old enough to have learned their parents' prejudices.

  The inn was, thankfully, quiet at this time of day. The people of Kirklees were all out working, so only the innkeeper, Fulk, and his sour-faced, skinny wife, Agnes, were in the building when he went inside.

  Fulk nodded to him. The inn-keeper neither liked nor disliked Edmond who had become a good customer recently, with a little extra coin from his reward and the black mood of a man that wants to spend that coin trying to find solace at the bottom of a mug.

  “God give you good day, tanner. You'll be lookin' for some ale, eh?”

  Agnes snorted and muttered something to herself, but Edmond ignored her and dropped a silver penny onto the bar.
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br />   “Aye. Refill this for me.” He handed the empty skin to Fulk who took it with a nod and moved to the barrels behind him.

  Fulk's wife, who was moving around placing fresh rushes on the floor to replace the ones that had become sodden with ale and puke and god-knew what else over the recent days, continued to mutter to herself, shaking her head and tutting in his direction every so often.

  Clearly, she wanted Edmond to hear her, as, when the young man didn't respond she moved closer and raised her voice slightly.

  Although he still couldn't make out full sentences, certain words were hissed with extra venom and the tanner found himself growing even angrier.

  As Fulk returned his ale-skin to him, Edmond removed the stopper and swallowed almost half of it. “Shut your whining mouth, woman,” he growled, glaring at Agnes whose eyes went wide, surprised at being challenged.

  Her mouth turned up at one corner in a half-smile though and she threw a small clump of reeds at his feet. “You drunk already, boy? Again?”

  Like most drinkers, Edmond hated to be reminded of the fact he was in thrall to the stuff, and he felt his temper rising as he turned to Fulk. “You better shut your woman's mouth, before I shut it for her.”

  The inn-keeper, a man used to dealing with violence from drink-sodden customers, pointed a long finger at the tanner. “Don't you threaten my wife, you ugly bastard.”

  He moved around the counter to stand protectively beside his wife who smirked, enjoying the drama. She'd tell everyone all about this later on when the workers returned from the fields!

  It was too much for Edmond. The grief, rage and guilt bubbled inside him and, like a poorly constructed tanning vat, his temper exploded.

  He found himself with his hands around Fulk's throat, trying to squeeze the breath from him, but the inn-keeper had seen the attack coming and managed to ram his knee between Edmond's legs.

  The pain was intense and the tanner responded with similar violence, kneeing, kicking, punching and trying to throttle the man who fought back desperately, knowing the crazed young tanner had lost control of himself.

  Agnes tried to drag Edmond off her husband and the three of them, snarling and spitting, battered off the wall and the bar.

  It started as a furious, loud fight, with the men grunting as they traded blows and the inn-keeper's wife screaming at Edmond, but after a while the room became almost silent as exhaustion overtook them and the sounds of fear and desperation became almost obscene as the two men lost themselves in the struggle.

  Eventually, Edmond managed to get a hand on the back of Fulk's hair and, forcing the older man's head sideways, battered it against the wooden wall with a thump.

  There was a high-pitched whimper from Agnes as Edmond smashed her husband's head against the wall again. And again, but this time there was a cracking sound and the fight left the three of them.

  Edmond let go of the inn-keeper who had become, literally, a dead-weight, and the body slumped to the ground, followed by Agnes who stared in shock at her man's unmoving body.

  In a daze, the young tanner walked to the front door and, without a backward glance, walked out into the village.

  His hands and clothes were blood-stained and, as Agnes appeared at the inn door screaming murder, none of the villagers nearby wanted anything to do with him.

  He passed unmolested along the street; even Godfrey, his brother's childhood tormentor, moved quietly back into the shadows at the sight of the bloody tanner.

  Vaguely, the sound of the inn-keeper's wife screaming came to him as he walked out of the village and was swallowed up by the looming forest of Barnsdale.

  * * *

  Stephen knew something was wrong.

  The Hospitaller had stopped at Cossebi for provisions as he made his way back to Kirklees. Cossebi was a small town, so the two men following him were easy to spot. In their chain-mail and carrying swords they stood out from the locals.

  Idiots.

  The problem was, Stephen had no idea who they were or who might have sent them. They couldn't have come from Highgate, to bring him to justice for killing the girl, surely? No, he doubted that: the girl wasn't important enough. The villagers would have banded together and hunted for him with their pitchforks and wood-axes, but they'd not have sent these two mercenaries after him, even if they could have afforded the price.

  The king's men? Stephen was still a rebel after all.

  He shook his head. The king had more important people to worry about than a lowly Hospitaller sergeant-at-arms.

  The small marketplace only boasted a few stalls, and those were poorly stocked, but he wasn't a man of opulent tastes so there was enough here to keep him going until he made it home again.

  “When did you bake this, lad?”

  The youngster at the bakers stall shrugged his thin shoulders. “My da baked it this morning, my lord. All our stuff is newly made today, see?” He picked up the loaf nearest him, squeezing it to show how soft it was.

  “Good. Give me that one then.”

  The boy handed over the fresh loaf with a sullen look. It was obvious most of the wares on show were at least a day old, more in some cases, and Stephen had taken the nicest, and freshest, loaf on the stall now.

  The Hospitaller smiled and tossed a small coin to the boy who scrambled to catch it.

  “That's for this too.” Stephen lifted a small meat pie along with the loaf and walked away, biting into the savoury as if he hadn't a care in the world. As he swung his head from side to side, checking out the rest of the goods and produce for sale at the stalls, he saw the two burly men following him at a short distance.

  He was in no mood to be hunted all the way back home, though, so he nonchalantly made his way towards the far outskirts of the market and the centre of town, to a deserted street with gutters so choked with shit and piss even the local dogs seemed to shun the place.

  He slipped into an alley, placed his prized fresh loaf on the ground and waited for his pursuers to come past. He drew his sword and breathed deeply to try and offset the effects of the blood coursing nervously through him as the sound of fast-moving footsteps approached him.

  As the men passed his hiding place, the sergeant dived out and battered the pommel of his sword against the temple of the man nearest him, who went flying sideways, unconscious, into the filth of the street.

  The second man was fast though, and as he saw the attack coming in his peripheral vision, had whipped his own blade free from its sheath and brought it up defensively in front of him. His eyes took in his fallen companion and their quarry, standing before him with a murderous look on his face.

  “Who are you?”

  The man moved closer, his sword held expertly before him. “We come from Sir Hugh Despenser.”

  Stephen's blood ran cold at that, and he felt the hairs on his neck rise. Despenser? The man had murdered Sir Richard's youngest son, Stephen, and obviously held a grudge against the Lord of Kirklees.

  The Hospitaller flicked his sword down and placed it against the Adam's apple of the man lying on the ground. “How did you know where I was?” he demanded.

  Despenser's man smiled, confident that his size and skill would be enough to kill the Hospitaller once the talking was over. “Your own Order gave you up, fool. I don't know what you did to piss them off, but they sent word that you were heading north and were to be stopped.”

  Stephen's mind whirled and he guessed it had been the Prior's bald steward who had betrayed him.

  “Stopped?”

  The man grinned again, rolling his shoulders and head to work out any kinks in his muscles. “Stopped, aye. Meaning killed.”

  The man on the ground groaned and rolled to his side, retching from the effects of the blow to the temple.

  Stephen booted the prone figure as hard as he could in the face, then swept his sword round in an arc to block the attack from the big man in front of him.

  “Is that your best, you ugly sack of shit?”

  Despen
ser's man was more than competent with a sword and held his temper despite the Hospitaller's annoying smile.

  They traded blows for a while, neither giving ground, content to play it out until an opening presented itself. Stephen's mind was working though, and the realisation that his own Order were actively seeking to make an end to him was a sickening thought.

  “What about my master?” he asked, parrying another raking blow from the left.

  His opponent laughed and pressed the attack again. “No idea, but my lord Despenser's probably got something good in store for him too.”

  Stephen slipped as he parried yet another crushing blow and felt as if the earth was swallowing him as he fell face-down on the hard road. Despenser's man saw his chance and stepped forward, kicking at the fallen Hospitaller's head.

  Desperately, Stephen threw both his feet round in an arc, grunting as the move paid off and his attacker stumbled over his legs, falling onto the ground beside him.

  Baring his teeth in rage, the Hospitaller straddled the man and slammed the pommel of his sword into his attacker's face. He was rewarded with the sound of bone and cartilage cracking as the man's nose broke and he fell backwards with a roar of agony.

  Almost insane with rage now, Stephen threw himself like one of the old berserkers on top of Despenser's mercenary, hammering his fist repeatedly into the man's left cheek until it was a bloody mess.

  He lay there, sucking air into his burning lungs for a while, before getting shakily to his feet. The second of his pursuers whimpered and Stephen shoved the tip of his sword deep into the man's throat.

  His own Order had sent men to kill him. The king's closest companion, Sir Hugh Despenser, wanted his blood. And God knew what fate had befallen his master.

  Shaking his head he picked up his loaf of bread and stumbled back through the marketplace towards his horse.

  God's bollocks! Today wasn't a good day.

  * * *

  They came for him at dawn. Bleary eyed and sullen from the previous night's drinking in Pontefract Castle's great hall.