Falconer's Prey

by April Hill

  While the rest of the camp feasted, Alice returned to her hut. In the dim light of the smoking tallow candle, she lifted her tunic and shift and inspected her rear portions. Both cheeks were uniformly red and welted, but by now the pain had subsided to an insistent, dull ache. Softly, she bathed the area with cool water and then lay down on her cot, taking care to lie on her side. Outside, the pleasant glow of the fire and the cheerful babble of the camp itself continued, but Alice felt only a great, overwhelming loneliness.

  Sometime later, a soft knock on the side of the doorway awakened her and she rose on one elbow to enquire.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Will Fletcher, Mistress. May I have a moment of your time?”

  Alice groaned. If the man had come to gloat, she would surely throw a chamber pot at him, whatever the disagreeable consequences.

  “If you have come here to bask in your triumph, Master Fletcher,” she called out, “I would beg you to leave me be for now. I am exceedingly weary. I will be just as good sport for you in the morning as I am now.”

  Ignoring her words, he lifted the curtain and came in. “Forgive my intrusion, but I wish you to know that I took no pleasure in your punishment, nor do I take any in your present discomfort.”

  She laughed bitterly. “You will forgive me if I do not believe that, sir!”

  “I’m truly sorry for that, but I still need a moment of your time. I have a favor to ask of you – which I believe will benefit both of us.”

  “You have gall, Master Fletcher!” she cried. “What possible favor could you want that would please me, or that I could ever be induced to grant?”

  “I have considered Robin’s words more carefully, and although I still believe the penalty you endured was wholly merited and long overdue, I do see the wisdom in his earlier observations concerning your motives. If you will permit me to assuage my conscience by performing a small, useful deed, I will endeavor to provide you safe conduct to your Uncle’s house.”

  The pain in her backside was almost forgotten as Alice leapt from the bed. “When may we leave?”

  “Perhaps two days – three at most. I must first confer with Robin to see that the camp is amply protected, and discuss the details of the venture with him. We’ll travel by night, and in some manner of disguise, which I will decide upon.”

  “I am so eager to see Uncle Henry!” she cried. “I have waited long for this moment. Since my brother’s death in the last Holy Crusade, he is the last of my true family – my dead mother’s brother.”

  “Very well, then. We’ll discuss our plans further in the morning, and if all goes well, leave two days from now. By then, I presume that the area of your current….malaise will be more agreeable to a long ride on horseback?”

  Alice looked at him through narrowed eyes. “That remark could be taken as gloating, Master Fletcher.”

  He thought for a moment. “Perhaps, just a bit of gloating. Bri’n assures me, with the greatest confidence that you will never steal again. Is he correct?”

  “Let us say that I will think very carefully before I do so,” Alice conceded. “I think I can promise, however, that I will never steal from Robin Hood again, or from his associates.”

  He smiled. “Then can we agree that the time you spent with the good blacksmith this evening was not wasted?”

  Alice thrust one finger at the doorway. “Good night, Master Fletcher!”

  He nodded his head and opened the curtain to leave, then turned.

  “I had almost forgotten. There is one more item, I believe, that you might wish to surrender? In light if your recent conversion to absolute honesty? A very small item?”

  “And what might that be, pray?” she asked coldly.

  “The pouch?”

  “Pouch?” she repeated innocently.

  “It’s rather a small leather pouch, but filled to overflowing with gold and silver coins belonging to this camp, and quite a lot of pilfered jewelry, as I recall?”

  Alice scowled, but lifted the edge of her straw–filled mattress and reached far under it to withdraw a pouch fitting his approximate description – though considerably larger.

  “I assure you, sir, that I had no intention of keeping this in my possession, or withholding its contents from the camp’s coffers. It had merely slipped my mind, hidden away as it was – for safety, of course.”

  “But, of course,” he said mildly. “I would certainly not accuse a lady of lying. Certainly not a lady like yourself, who has so recently been given such disagreeable cause to repent of her past sins….”

  When she thrust the pouch out to him to halt any further sarcasm, he took the bag, looked at it with astonishment, and hefted it in one hand. “My God, woman! How could you sleep with this monstrous thing beneath your mattress? It’s the size and weight of a small child! I had no idea of the extent of your….”

  Alice leveled a look of pure hatred at him. “Good night, Master Fletcher!”

  * * * * *

  Alice kept to her hut the next day, leaving only to attend to her kitchen duties. She joined the other women late in the morning, hoping to simply be left in peace. But Fanny had no intention of letting the matter drop

  “Fine thing! Late again, even after that exc’llent wallopin’ ye had last night! Ye young things need a bit more o’ that, if ye ask me, to learn what’s what. Still and all, I’ll wager yer butt’s wearin’ a fearsome good bruise or two this mornin’. Bri’n’s a man who knows how to set a plump ass on fire, and from what I seen of it, he done yer’s to a turn. Bri’n knows how to give it to a lady right and proper, now, don’t he? It’s all them muscles, from the blacksmithin’, I expect. Me and old Bri’n come from the same village, ye know, and I had me one of his wallopins when I was a girl not much older ’n ye. I recall it ’til this day, I do. I’d fancied me a night’s fuckin’ with another’s betrothed and paid for it with a almighty hard paddlin.’ I jigged around like a dervish after he’d finished, and yowled somethin’ fierce. He was a younger man, then, and stronger, yet. Ye don’t know what ye missed!” She leaned back her head and laughed uproariously.

  Alice groaned. It never failed to amaze her how Fanny found being beaten amusing.

  “Beaten!” Fanny crowed, when Alice remarked on this. “Beaten, indeed! That were no beatin’, love. In the village I was born to, a wench caught drunk, or whoring, or stealin’ could get bound up by her wrists to a cart’s tail, and drug though the streets the whole damn way to the square. There, she’d find herself bent over the end of the same cart, with her skirts tucked up and her bodice unlaced at the back, to get her naked ass birched and her bare back striped raw, with the whole town gawkin’. Now, that were a beatin’.”

  * * * * *

  The camp had just begun to stir when Alice stepped out of her hut on the second morning, eager to be on time at the cook fire. Tomorrow, if Fletcher remained true to his promise, he would take her to Uncle Henry’s, and she had awakened in excellent spirits, despite the residual ache in her hindquarters. She had slept peacefully through the night’s heavy rain, and now, a soft breeze rustled among the new green leaves. Bright sunshine had already burned off the usual light morning fog, and the air was damp and fragrant with the peaty aroma of a fine, wet English spring. The day promised to be warm and mild. Perfect traveling weather.

  Still, she crossed the clearing with some remaining trepidation, uncomfortable in the knowledge that everyone there knew of her theft and had witnessed its humiliating penalty. To her surprise, though, the event seemed mostly forgotten and no one appeared to pay her any undue attention. Those she passed spoke normally to her, although there was what might have been an amused smile by one or two of the men and a bit of giggling from a cluster of gossiping girls somewhat younger than herself. As she had expected a good deal more, Alice was immensely relieved. Even Fanny seemed to have gotten all the amusement she could from the spanking and greeted her in her normal bawdy fashion.

  “And it’s about time, slug–a–bed.
God’s eyes, am I to feed this mob by myself ? It’s a fine black puddin’ for dinner it is, with asses’ milk and pork fat with onions, and I’ve got my hands full. Now, get yer lazy rump over there and pick me a chicken for tonight’s supper! A good, fat one, if there be any, tho’ I bloody well doubt ye’ll find one with more meat than bones.”

  Alice strolled dreamily off in the direction of the chicken pen, basking in the warm sun and shading her eyes with one hand to study the few wisps of clouds drifting about the azure sky. Thinking of the fine riding weather she and Will Fletcher would have if the clouds didn’t bring rain, she turned the corner near the privy – and collided solidly with a huge man carrying a great keg of beer balanced on his jouncing stomach.

  Because of the weight of the unwieldy burden he bore, the man fell backwards and sat down very hard on the soft, wet grass. The barrel hit the ground and burst open, spilling its dark–brown contents over the ground and over the beer–carrier, as well. Alice stumbled, but didn’t fall, but as she reached down to assist the fellow, she saw to her horror that he was a monk – a vastly fat, red–faced, fully–tonsured and brown–robed monk!

  Torn between a respectful apology and terror, Alice stood frozen for a moment and then turned to flee. But, before she could escape, the monk grabbed the hem of her tunic with one great hammy fist, and began to spew forth a torrent of very un–monkish language.

  “Accursed, clumsy bitch!” he roared. “What sort of baseborn, impious heathen would bowl down a holy brother such as myself, then leave him to wallow about in the mud like a bleeding hog? Give me thy hand, thou stupid wench!”

  Alice backed up, shaking her head and trying to pull loose from his grip. “Leave hold of me, sir! At once!”

  The monk struggled to his knees, losing his hold on her skirt for a moment. Alice tried to run, but slipped in a puddle of beer and fell to her knees just in front of him. Before she could scramble up, he had her around the hips, and pulled her face–down in the mud. Alice screamed, snatched up a stave from the burst barrel, and slammed it as hard as she could across the monk’s partly shaven head.

  “Thee’ll pay for that with a welted ass, thou damned, godless wretch!” he bellowed, tearing the stave from her hands. In a sudden demonstration of agility that belied his stupendous bulk, the beer–soaked brother got to his feet, wrapped one great arm around Alice’s waist to lift her onto her hands and knees, and held her there while he delivered a huge, thumping blow across her seat with the wooden stave. Alice screeched in pain and tried to rise, only to feel another blow, harder than the first, on her already tender bottom.

  “Forgive me, sir!” she shrieked, scrambling to regain her feet. “I meant you no ill–will, I swear! It was but an accident!”

  “Accident!” he boomed. “Whacking a peaceable servant of God across the head with a monstrous great weapon an ACCIDENT! ’T will be no accident, thou misbegotten hellion, when I flog thy lying, heathen rump!”

  Suddenly, the laughing crowd that had gathered parted and Robin stepped between the shouting monk and Alice.

  “Great heavens, Mistress Johnstone!” he cried, laughing heartily. “Can it be that you go out each day actually seeking mayhem and confusion?” He grabbed the monk’s free hand and shook it vigorously. “And Tuck, good fellow, we’ve been awaiting your arrival for more than a fortnight. What the devil kept you?”

  The monk dropped his barrel stave and greeted Robin by throwing one arm about the younger man’s shoulders, while keeping the other arm firmly around Alice’s muddy waist. “Aye, friend Robin, ’t is been far too long! I’ve been long away carrying the Good Word to the far country folk and have only this week returned to Nottingham. How is it with thee, friend, and with thy noble band?”

  “All is well, good Brother Tuck, but I wish you would let the poor lady up from the muck. You have successfully disarmed her, I see, and besides, she is one of us now.”

  The monk dropped Alice and pointed with disbelief. “That! Hast thou lost thy mind, brother Robin? This wicked wench fell upon me and near murdered me!”

  “Aye, I witnessed the meeting from my quarters there. Is it possible, dear friend, that you’ve quaffed so much of your own excellent brew early this spring morning, that it is yourself that caused the collision?”

  Tuck’s face reddened, but then broke into a huge grin. “Brother, thou knowest me too well, I fear. This batch here was of an uncommonly good, musky flavor and I was in great haste to bring thee the first keg, after tapping just a mug or two to test its head. None o’ that peasant’s puke of fermented barley either, but a veracious brew ’t would make the Archangel Michael himself do us a jig! Alas, between this infernal hellion’s idle wool–gathering and my own… uh... my own morning mellowness, the barrel was sadly lost. Fear not, though, my cart carries on it six or seven more kegs, equally virtuous in flavor!”

  He prodded the still prostrate Alice’s shoulder with the tip of his sandaled foot, and then leaned down and lifted her up from the mud, placing one hand firmly on her bottom as he did so. Alice could have sworn that the holy brother’s great hand squeezed her still tender buttocks a bit more firmly than was necessary and that several of his sturdy fingers slipped ever–so–slightly between her opened legs.

  “And who is the comely would be–murderess?” he asked. In the fray, Alice’s breasts had almost slipped from her bodice, and while she hastened to correct the problem, she noticed that Tuck’s gaze lingered much too long on her bosom to seem completely monkish. Indeed, it seemed to Alice that the good friar actually licked his lips.

  “Allow me to introduce you, Mistress,” Robin said, “to our great friend and confessor, Friar Tuck. The good friar is from Fountaindale Abbey, near Blidworth. And this mud–soaked lady, friend Tuck, is Mistress Alice Johnstone, late of St. Mary’s Abbey.”

  Tuck raised one bushy eyebrow and gave a low whistle. “Not the wench... beg pardon… the lady the Bishop searches for in every nook and cranny in Nottinghamshire? Henry Burden’s errant niece?”

  Robin nodded. “The very one. She has recently escaped the clutches of the Bishop of Hereford and his Abbess.”

  “I visited with Lord Burden while he was enjoying the Sheriff’s hospitality at Nottingham jail,” Tuck said. “And found him sorely worried about this lady.”

  “We have sent him word that she is safe,” Robin explained.

  “Was my uncle in good health, good sir?” Alice asked eagerly, wiping the mud from her face.

  “Aye, Mistress, he was. He is too good a friend of King Richard for the Sheriff to treat him roughly without cause.”

  “Come, Tuck!” Robin exclaimed, “Breakfast is ready and you must have a keen appetite after this early–morning skirmish.”

  Tuck laughed heartily, his great belly shaking beneath his muddy robes. “And when, pray tell, have I not had a keen appetite?” He offered a hand to Alice. “Wilst thou join me at table, dear lady and drown our quarrel in a tankard of my own good brew?”

  Alice nodded, and curtsied politely. “Thank you, Brother, but I fear that I owe you an explanation, as well as an apology. It was your monastic garb that frightened me so. I have reason to be wary of such attire, as you might imagine.”

  With one swoop of his hand, Tuck indicated his simple, shabby robes and his ample girth.

  “As thou canst plainly see, Mistress, I am no pale, bloodless hooded monk, hiding away amongst dank corridors and scribbling in dusty books, but a simple preaching friar. My brothers and I wander life’s open road, living on naught but pious charity to bring the Lord’s word to the poor and common folk of the kingdom. Thou hast no reason to fear one of my order. Neither the corrupt Bishop of Hereford, nor the Abbess of St. Mary’s, nor any of their greedy ilk speak for God, nor for the true church.”

  Alice grasped Tuck’s hand in hers and smiled. “I thank you for that, good Friar. My faith has been sorely tested by the events that have befallen me at St. Mary’s. It is a pleasure to meet a gentle man of the cloth, such as yourself
.”

  Tuck put his head back and roared with gusto.

  “Gentle, my eyes! I’ll still roast thy winsome ass if thou ever cost me another keg! Come, my pet, and let a long–thirsting man of God feast his world–weary eyes on something young and a good deal prettier than the rear end of my own faithful mule on this fine spring morning!”

  After they made their way across the clearing to the long, already set tables, the good friar pulled out a barrel for her, and as he did so, he delivered a fond, brotherly squeeze to her left breast, while his other hand slipped unnoticed beneath her skirt to pinch her bottom –just once, but very hard.

  Chapter the Fifth

  In Robin Hood’s Camp, On The Twenty–Ninth Day of March, in The Year of Our Lord 1193. God Save King Richard.

  The portly friar named Tuck was still eating with formidable gusto an hour and a half later when Alice left the table to return to her hut and change her mud–splattered clothing. Having done so, she carried the soiled garments several hundred yards from the camp to rinse them in the still partly frozen water of the nearest stream. As she knelt on the bank, pounding the thick mud from her shift, she heard a noise behind her and whirled to see Will Fletcher walking toward her, an annoyed look on his face.

  She leaped up, dropping her wash into the creek and imagining yet another spanking being administered to her still aching bottom.

  “Please forgive me, Master Fletcher!” she cried, her apology quite sincere. “Fanny said it was permitted, this near to camp!”

  He looked at her, perplexed. “What?”

  “My being in the woods, again?” she faltered.

  He waved a hand. “You’re trusted this far, Mistress. I believe you and I have finally cleared up the matter of your leaving the camp without leave. No, it’s another disobedient, wandering fool I’m in search of this day. Have you seen young Bartholomew come this way? You know him, I think, the skinny lad with red hair... the older son of Much – the miller’s son?”