They'd been glad to tell him who they were and where he was going when he asked them.
Nottingham. His heart had sank at the news the sheriff was going to hang him. Sir Henry de Faucumberg hated him after he'd helped Robin Hood and his gang escape the sheriff's “justice” last year.
Now de Faucumberg would have his revenge by publicly hanging the disgraced lord of Kirklees.
Sir Richard was frightened, but more than that, he was angry that his life would be ended, in front of a baying mob, on de Faucumberg's orders. Despair washed over him, but only for a moment, then his faith galvanized him and he rode, shoulders back and head held high, from the castle, out onto the road towards Nottingham surrounded by a dozen of Despenser's men, all heavily armed and riding great warhorses while he trailed along beneath them on a sway-backed old palfrey.
The journey took up the whole day and was uneventful: Despenser's men were well-disciplined and bore him no ill-will. He was fed regularly and given ale – indeed, he could have drank himself into a stupor for all his captors cared. As long as he gave them no trouble and stayed on his horse, they were content.
The men ignored him when he tried to start a conversation on the road though, and, on reaching Nottingham, they handed him over to the sheriff's men as if he were a common criminal.
God, give me the strength to get through this, he prayed. When he'd decided to give himself up to the king's justice it had seemed like the noble, honourable, Christian thing to do. Yet now, imprisoned in de Faucumberg's dungeon beneath Nottingham Castle, Sir Richard wondered if he'd made a terrible mistake.
He was frightened. Scared to die. Not for his own sake, but, although Sir Hugh Despenser had murdered his youngest son, Simon, Sir Richard had another son in Rhodes and the tears streamed down his lined face at the thought he would never see his boy again.
Hadn't he been a good Christian? A good man?
Christ's words on the cross came to him and he bowed his head in despair. Father! Why have you forsaken me?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“I can't best Gisbourne, John. Even before he beat the shit out of me, I wasn't a match for him. And now...look at me!” Robin shook his bruised knuckles at his big friend. “The man's unbeatable, trust me. I'm not walking into a duel with him, it's madness.”
Little John threw his hands in the air. “You have to get over this. You can't hide here forever.”
“I'm not” –
“Three months ago you would have jumped at the chance to fight Gisbourne,” John cut in, pointing at his young leader while the rest of the men looked on, unsure whose side they should be taking in this discussion. “You're the best swordsman of us all. If anyone can beat the bastard, it's you.” He walked over to stand in front of Robin, towering over the younger man. “I know you lost hope when you were in jail. I know they tried to break your spirit. But this is your chance to prove to Gisbourne – and yourself – that you're” –
“What?” Robin demanded. “What am I? I'm a yeoman from Wakefield. Not even that any more: I'm a wolf's head. A nobody. What have I to prove to anyone?”
John's face turned red with anger and he grabbed his friend by the front of his gambeson and hauled him off the ground as if Robin were no more than a child.
“You're supposed to be our leader! You're a husband. You're about to be a father for Christ's sake! It's time you started acting like a man again, instead of sitting around here brooding about what the big bad Raven did to you.”
Robin glared at the giant but made no effort to fight him off.
“See,” John dropped him back to the floor, waving a hand dismissively. “You've no fight left in you. Maybe it's best you don't meet Gisbourne like this after all. Go sit by the fire again, with your ale, listening to Allan's songs, while the rest of us make sure the sheriff and king's men don't kill us all.”
“What's going on?”
Will Scarlet strode into camp with two of the other men. They'd been visiting New Mylle on Dam that morning, buying provisions and gathering news from the locals.
“Ask our famous leader,” John spat towards Robin, turning his back and storming off through the ranks of sympathetic men.
Will looked curiously at the bowed head of his young friend, but Robin moved away without explanation and sat down with a heavy sigh beside the little camp-fire.
“Robin won't take on Gisbourne,” Gareth offered. “He doesn't think he can beat him, injured like he is.”
Will walked over to stand on the opposite side of the fire and looked down at the brooding young man. “Well, here's some news that might get your fight back: the sheriff's captured Sir Richard-at-Lee. They're going to hang him on Saturday. Looks like they've found a nobleman to take your place on the gallows.”
Robin's head snapped up and he met Will's stare in disbelief.
“Don't even think about trying to rescue him. Me and Tuck were lucky to get you out of there before. That was a miracle that won't be repeated. They'll have tripled the guard on the Hospitaller and sealed the city until he's swinging. De Faucumberg lost a fine prize when you escaped – he won't make the same mistake twice. Word is, the Despenser had a hand in his capture, so his men will probably be guarding Sir Richard too. He's as good as dead already.”
Robin shut his eyes and bowed his head. How many more of his friends must die? Sir Richard had helped them when they needed it. He'd introduced them to the Earl of Lancaster and, if the rebellion had succeeded, they'd all be free men now thanks to the Hospitaller.
Things hadn't turned out like that though, and here they were. Condemned men, waiting to die. And Sir Richard-at-Lee would be next to go.
Never give up hope! Tuck's words rang in Robin's head again and he felt the rage of the past few weeks building up inside him.
Little John had returned to listen to Will's news, and Robin glanced up at him now, his eyes blazing. “What day is it?”
“June the 8th. Tuesday,” the big man replied, with a confused look.
“When did Gisbourne want to meet me?”
“Next Monday.”
“Two days after they're to hang the Hospitaller,” Will noted.
“Fine.” Robin stood up and made his way over to where the practice swords were stored, lifting the heavier one he always used. “Spar with me, John. I have a few days to get my fitness back if I'm going to beat the bastard. We might not be able to save Sir Richard, but maybe I can stop the Raven killing any more of us.”
The gathered outlaws cheered as if they'd all been granted a pardon.
* * *
Stephen knew something was wrong when he rode into Kirklees on his way back to the castle and the locals paid him no heed.
As far as he knew, he was still a fugitive, wanted as a rebel by the king's men. So how come people were turning away from him as if they were embarrassed, rather than calling out the tithing to chase after him as he'd expected?
In the name of Christ, some of the villagers were even waving at him!
Whatever had happened, he clearly wasn't in any obvious danger. Which was a bad sign.
“How goes it, Justin?” The sergeant pulled his horse up and slid to the ground, addressing the local smith as he did so. “Any news?”
“News? You haven't heard?” The man looked at him in disbelief. “Where the hell have you been?”
“I've been away in London,” Stephen replied.
Justin grunted in reply and eyed the Hospitaller as if he'd just returned from the moon. Like the vast majority of the villagers, the smith had never travelled anywhere outside Yorkshire. “Well,” he grunted, swinging his heavy hammer down on the horseshoe he was working on, “Sir Richard's been taken. Two of the local lads – the tanner's boys – captured him. Your master managed to kill one of them but the other took him to Sir Philip of Portsmouth at Pontefract Castle.”
Stephen felt numb. His fingers tingled weirdly, as if the blood had been cut off from them and he moved to sit on a huge old log the smith kept as a chair
.
“The lad that captured him – Edmond – came back a while ago, but people were angry at him. He attacked big Fulk, the inn-keep, and disappeared. No one's seen him since.”
“Angry at him?” Stephen looked up at the smith in confusion. “Why? I'd have thought he'd have been a hero.”
Justin shrugged half-heartedly and went back to beating the horseshoe. “Because Sir Richard was a good lord to Kirklees, and Edmond handed him over to the law. People didn't like it, and they let him know it too.” He smiled ingratiatingly at Stephen, as if the Hospitaller should be thankful for the villagers' loyalty.
“Bollocks,” Stephen spat, getting to his feet again. “Me and my master were left alone in the castle when the king's men came looking for us. I didn't see you or any of the rest of them standing up for us then.”
The smith opened his mouth to protest, his eyebrows lowered indignantly, but Stephen waved a hand to silence him and climbed back onto his horse.
“Forget it, I care nothing for the tanner's sons, or for the rest of you. Where's Sir Richard now? Still at Pontefract?”
“No. We heard he'd been moved to Nottingham. The sheriff's going to hang him after at the weekend. They'd captured Robin Hood, but he escaped, so de Faucumberg's making a big deal out of this to try and make up for it.”
Despite his shock, Stephen smiled at the idea of Hood escaping the sheriff's clutches. The wolf's head led a charmed life, sure enough.
“Kirklees Castle has been taken over by the king's steward,” the smith shouted as Stephen kicked his horse into a walk past the inn and back towards the main road. “Sir Simon de Baldreston. You'd best steer well clear! They might have forgotten you for now, but if you show up causing trouble anywhere they'll hang you too!”
The sergeant-at-arms waved a hand in reply and spurred the big palfrey into a trot. It had all been for nothing. He'd taken too long getting to Clerkenwell and now, even if the Prior had sent a letter to the king on Sir Richard's behalf, it was too late. His master was to be hanged for treason.
It was all Stephen's fault – he should never have allowed that girl to sidetrack him! All he could do now was ride to Nottingham to witness his master's death.
Christ and St John only knew what would become of him after that.
* * *
He had no trouble joining the crowd on Gallows Hill outside Nottingham. Why would he? A middle-aged man, of average height and build; just another visitor come to see the Hospitaller Knight swing.
Of course, he'd left his black surcoat with its give-away white cross back amongst the trees on the roadside, along with his chain-mail, his horse and even his sword. He wasn't here for a fight, and a weapon like that would only draw the guards' attention to him.
He lost himself in the surging mass of people. The atmosphere appeared to be one of celebration and a younger man might have felt sick at the glee these folk seemed to feel at the idea of watching a good knight die in such a horrible way.
Stephen had seen it too many times before to let it affect him visibly though. Of course, it surprised him, as it always did, that normal, everyday people – mothers with their excited children; whole families in some cases, from the youngest babe to the oldest doddering, cackling crone – could get so excited at another person's miserable death, before heading back to their homes to continue their lives as normal.
But he'd made a career – a life – from killing men, who was he to question humanity's baser instincts? Hadn't he just murdered a woman in her sick-bed?
The crowd washed him up like a piece of flotsam on the outskirts of the audience awaiting the hanging, so he discreetly but firmly pushed his way through the tightly-packed people, silencing anyone who tried to complain with a murderous glare, until he made it almost to the front. He positioned himself behind a small group of women so he could see over them straight to the sinister-looking wooden construction which would end his master's life before the day was out.
Small children pushed their way between the gathered people, offering meat pies and pastries; merchants hawked more exotic snacks like oranges, figs and dates; men and women discussed their favourite executions and how they imagined the Hospitaller would go to his death. Most of those around him thought Sir Richard would be stoic and proud to the end, but Stephen had to restrain himself from punching one drunken loud-mouth who claimed to know the former Lord of Kirklees was a coward.
Of course, there were more people to be hanged than just the knight. The sheriff wanted to make this a day the inhabitants of Nottingham would enjoy – a day that would make up for the loss of the wolf's head, Robin Hood. The people had been looking forward to that, which sickened Stephen – he knew the lower classes saw Hood as a freedom fighter and a hero. A man who outfought and outsmarted the bastard noblemen that bled the people dry.
And yet many of them had been disappointed to miss out on a day's entertainment when Hood's men had led him back to the safety of Barnsdale Forest and robbed them of a good hanging.
The sergeant-at-arms gazed around at the people and shook his head in a black rage. Fucking idiots. So starved of joy and excitement that the sight of a man convulsing as his last breath was stolen from him by a length of rope was a highlight of their week. So easily led, that even the ones who knew inside this was wrong would stand cheering and laughing until they were hoarse just so they could be like everyone else.
Idiots.
His eyes swept the crowd in disgust until he noticed a young man and a spark of recognition flared. He looked again, taking in the thin beard and flat nose, and his heart missed a beat. Edmond: the tanner's son. The bastard that had brought Sir Richard to his doom, standing here, waiting to see the knight die!
Fingering the dagger strapped to the outside of his thigh, Stephen began to force his way through the crowd towards the young man. A few people tried to stop him as he barged past but the sergeant had lost any sense of danger and he simply battered anyone that stood in his path out of the way, leaving a trail of confusion and pain in his wake.
The blood was hammering in his veins as he neared the tanner's son and, from the direction of the gallows he could hear a man's voice raised to address the people. Sliding the dagger free from its leather sheath, Stephen held it in his clenched fist, with the blade under his wrist, ready to slip it between Edmond's ribs.
The crowd suddenly cheered, as Sir Henry de Faucumberg, Sheriff of Nottingham and Yorkshire, raised a hand with a smile and the disgraced rebel knight, Sir Richard-at-Lee was led up the stairs onto the gallows.
Stephen knew what was going on now, and he wanted to look at his master to see how he was holding up, but, as he came within arm's reach of the tanner's son and prepared to plunge his blade into the man, he was shocked to see Edmond cry out in anguish and try to push his way towards the gallows.
Assuming he'd misheard the sheriff and it was some other man about to be hung, Stephen looked round and felt as if an arrow had pierced his heart. Sure enough, his master stood, head bowed, looking like an old, old man, rather than the proud knight his sergeant had left on the ramparts of Kirklees Castle just a few days before.
His eyes roved across the crowd again, searching for the tanner's son who was by now a couple of rows in front of him, shouting and crying, although the sergeant couldn't make out the words.
A couple of the sheriff's men were watching Edmond curiously. He was too far away to be a threat, yet, but they hefted their great pole-arms and Stephen knew they would skewer the tanner's son before he could get to the gallows and do whatever it was he was planning in his near-hysterical state.
With a curse, Stephen used his strength to force his way through the crowd towards Edmond who couldn't command the same level of respect – or fear – as the grim sergeant and, as a result, found his way to the gallows was a slow one.
“Boy!”
Edmond ignored the voice close behind him, and, with a snarl, tried to shrug off the hand that had grasped his shoulder like a vice.
“Boy!”
Turning, ready to fight whoever was trying to restrain him, Edmond stared at the man and knew instantly who he was. Images of Sir Richard walking through Kirklees past his father's shop came into his mind. The smiling knight with his thick beard – which had been turning to grey even when Edmond was just a teenager – chatting to the tradesmen and accompanied, always, by his scowling sergeant-at-arms. The same man who held him now, like a jailer, by the front of his cloak.
Edmond's face crumpled and fresh tears made tracks in the grime on his cheeks. “I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!”
The guards were still watching – more in amusement now than anything else, but Stephen knew they'd be quick to break a few heads to reach them if they felt anything was amiss so he met Edmond's eyes and grasped his shoulders firmly.
“Get a grip of yourself, boy, now. The sheriff's men are watching us. You keep this up and they're going to come for us.”
The sergeant's commanding tone – so like Sir Richard's as Edmond remembered from their short journey together – surprised the tanner's son and he met the calm stare of the older man.
“I'm sorry,” he repeated, this time in almost a whisper. “I never wanted this. I thought capturing Sir Richard would make everything right. It's made everything worse!”
“Forget it,” Stephen growled, his eyes drawn to what was happening on the gallows behind the weeping Edmond.
While they'd been talking Sir Richard had been led to stand in front of the crowd and the sheriff now read out the charges laid against the Knight Hospitaller. The people booed and cheered, laughed and hooted, cursed and joked as the list was read out and de Faucumberg played the part of master of ceremonies to the full.
The bastard will be loving this, Stephen thought, watching the sheriff ham it up. Sir Richard and the Earl of Lancaster had made a fool of him the previous Christmas by rescuing Robin Hood and his men from the trap the sheriff had set for them. Now it was payback time for the sheriff.
The Wolf and the Raven Page 27