Wolf's Head (The Forest Lord)

by Steven A McKay

  The young outlaw had hoped to share more quiet moments with Will, as they had that sunny day fishing by the riverbank, but Will barely spoke a word to anyone anymore.

  John decided he had to speak to Robin, to see if they could find some solution to their problems, so he stood up, patting Will awkwardly on the shoulder and headed off to look for the young man from Wakefield.

  He found him soon enough, working with Much to place animal skins over their small shelters to keep the worst of the autumn winds out.

  “We can’t go on like this, Robin,” the bearded giant muttered without preamble. “Some of the men feel resentful about what’s happened and Will acting like he has a death wish is putting everyone on edge. We have to do something.”

  Robin sighed, shrugging his shoulders resignedly and dropped the tatty old sheepskin he was holding. “I know. I seem to have brought nothing but bad luck since I joined you men. If we could find some way to reach Will – brighten his mood, give him something to live for – maybe everyone would feel better.”

  John nodded his massive head as Robin sat down next to him. “But what? Will’s lost everything – his wife, children and now, even his pride. He trusted Adam.”

  “If we’re to survive the winter, we need Will, you know that,” Robin frowned. “Will has skills none of the rest of us have now Adam’s gone. We need to help him.”

  “I know,” the big bearded outlaw agreed. “I’ve spoken to people who knew Will years ago, before he became an outlaw. They all say he was a happy, friendly lad, but with a hint of steel in him. After everything he’s been through, all that’s left is the steel. His humanity’s been torn out of him.”

  The sat in silence for a time, the drunken revelry of the other men doing nothing to lighten their mood, and then Robin pushed himself to his feet. “I’m going to try and help him. I’ll take Allan with me in the morning; his experience should come in useful. We’ll be gone no more than a few days, hopefully. Maybe with me out of sight for a bit some of the men might cheer up!”

  Little John smiled mirthlessly. “What are you going to do?”

  “Find Will’s humanity.”

  * * *

  Robin and Allan-a-Dale, a broad shouldered, confident young man who had been a minstrel before he was declared an outlaw gathered some food, money and concealed weapons about themselves before setting off.

  “Where are we going, Robin?” Allan asked for the tenth time, having been given no answer yet from his grim-faced friend.

  “Hathersage,” came the reply, at last. “We need to see if we can find some information that might bring Will back from the purgatory he’s living in.”

  Allan snorted, shaking his wiry brown hair gently. “Purgatory? Hell more like.”

  The two young men knew the way well enough to Hathersage, it was only about fifteen miles southwest from their camp, and they made good progress before the sun began to dip below the horizon, when they decided to make camp for the night.

  After a short search of the area they found a suitable place, well off the main track and lit a fire to cook a little supper and take the chill from the air. Allan took first watch, Robin the second. With Bell’s extra patrols hunting the outlaws, it didn’t do to be unwary although the night passed without any trouble.

  Robin’s dreams were vivid during the night and he slept fitfully, but all he could remember on waking was a girl’s face, unhappy and dejected.

  They arrived at Hathersage just after midday. Neither of them had been into the village before, always waiting on the outskirts when the outlaws came to buy or trade for supplies, so there was little chance of their being recognized as wolf’s heads. As strangers they would naturally be viewed with suspicion, but that was to be expected.

  “Will told me he lived in a nice house near the mill; we should start around there, see if anyone has any information about what happened to his family.”

  Allan shrugged. “What is it you think we’re going to find here? Will told you: his family were all killed. Everyone knows that.”

  Robin looked thoughtfully at the path ahead, trying to answer the question himself. It did seem like nothing more than a wild-goose chase, but he was hopeful something good would come from this trip to Hathersage.

  “I honestly don’t know what we’ll find here, if anything,” he admitted. “It can’t hurt to ask around though.”

  The mill was easy to find, simply by following the river. The miller’s wife was in the garden, tending to some carrots she was growing there, probably the last crop of the season and not a particularly good one judging from the occasional curses the woman was grunting.

  “God give you good day, lady,” Robin smiled, openly.

  The miller’s wife glanced up warily and returned the greeting before returning to her work.

  “We’re just looking for an old friend of ours, used to live around here. William Scaflock was his name. Do you know him?”

  The miller’s wife looked up again, a cautious look in her eyes. “He’s been gone from here for a few years, boys. Upset some of the nobles and he suffered for it.”

  The outlaws feigned surprise at the news. “But he had a family – what happened to them?”

  The woman clearly didn’t feel too comfortable talking to two strangers, but her natural desire to gossip won out. “The soldiers killed them all. Although, when our men came to clear the mess that was left, they said there were only five bodies. Should have been six, but the little girl was missing.”

  Robin’s eyes flared eagerly but he tried to act calm. “What happened to her?” he asked.

  The woman leaned in closer, looking around as if someone hidden might be listening, which was absurd, given their open location. “No one knows for sure, but some of the villagers go to the manor house up on the hill to trade or do work for the lord, and some of them swear Scaflock’s daughter is up there. A kitchen maid she is. So they say…I’ve been there to pay my rents, and for feasts, but I’ve never seen the girl myself.”

  Robin and Allan, although buoyed by the possibility that the little girl might still be alive, were outraged.

  “You mean the local lord took an English girl and made her a slave?” Robin demanded.

  The woman shrugged. “It’s probably just a tale – some other girl that looks like Scaflock’s daughter. I don’t know, but if it is true, well, at least they never killed her like they did the rest of her family. Here, you two can do me a favour in return for all that information: take these two bags of flour to the baker in the village. Ask him about the girl when you’re there – he’s seen her, and he was a friend of Scaflock’s.”

  The two young men grinned as they were loaded up by the helpful woman and set off to the baker’s with a renewed sense of purpose.

  * * *

  The baker, Wilfred, took the delivery from Robin and Allan with a gruff word of thanks, inviting them into his shop and offering them a jug of ale each in return for their help. He joined them for it, his rosy red face, purpling nose and run-down premises suggesting he often took a break from work for an ale or two.

  “Aye, Will was a friend,” he admitted in reply to Robin’s query. “We used to drink together sometimes when he wasn’t off fighting Saracens or whoever.”

  Robin watched the baker’s face closely as he asked about Will’s daughter and what the miller’s wife had said.

  “Bah, that woman’s tongue is too bloody loose, she needs to learn to keep her mouth shut. Talk like that can get people into trouble.”

  The ale had begun to warm the three men by now though, and Wilfred gazed thoughtfully at nothing until Robin tried again. “It’s true though? The girl is at the manor house? She’s a kitchen maid, or some kind of servant?”

  The baker stared at Robin, then Allan, trying to decide how much he should trust these two dangerous-looking young men.

  “I promise you, Wilfred, we are friends of Scaflock,” said Robin gently. “He’s in a bad way – he cares for nothing any more, other tha
n revenge against the rich nobles. We’d like to help him. Give him something to live for again.”

  Wilfred took another long pull of his ale, and refilled his mug before fixing the two men with a stare and replying. “He’s a wolf’s head now, so I suppose you two are as well.”

  Robin and Allan shared an uncomfortable glance, well aware of the danger they could be placing themselves in by trusting in this gruff baker.

  “I knew the girl well,” said Wilfred. “She was a lively thing, full of energy and mischief. I see her at that manor house now and she’s like a wraith. Never smiles, head always down – and what will happen to her when she’s older? If it hasn’t already?” An anguished look crossed his face, and he sipped his drink again, wiping his eyes angrily, as well as his mouth.

  The outlaws grimaced at the implications of the baker’s words, knowing they were true. Will’s daughter had no life to look forward to if she stayed at the lord’s house.

  “What I don’t understand . . .” the baker muttered, “why did Will never come back for the girl? I’d have expected him to come looking for revenge, same as he did with Roger de Troyes.”

  “He doesn’t know Beth’s alive,” Robin replied. “He saw the rest of his family, brutally murdered, and he lost his mind with it – anyone would. Then, in a rage, he killed de Troyes before he found out who’d done it.”

  Wilfred shook his head. “Christ, poor Will. When you tell him it was Lord de Bray that destroyed his family and took his daughter…He’ll get himself killed trying to fight his way into de Bray’s manor house.”

  Allan grunted. “Robin has a better idea: you’ll like this.”

  “We need your help, Wilfred”- Robin nodded, looking directly into the baker’s eyes – “to get into that manor house, so we can take the girl. You’ll be saving two lives – neither Will or Beth have any future if we don’t do this.”

  The baker stared into his empty ale mug for long moments and then whispered, “I saw what those butchers did to that family. It was a massacre. I’ll never, ever forget it. I don’t know why they spared little Beth’s life” – he looked up at Robin, a determined look on his face – “but if I can make some of this right for Will, I’ll do whatever I can.”

  * * *

  Matilda had stopped for a break from working at her father’s fletching shop. The sun was high in the early afternoon sky and it was unseasonably warm today. She drew herself a cup of water from the well in the centre of the village and savoured its coolness as she tipped it into her mouth.

  Just then, a man reeled from the alehouse, obviously worse for strong drink and the effects of the heat.

  Matilda groaned inwardly as the drunk spotted her and began weaving his way over. Simon Woolemonger was an older man, nearly forty years old, and an unpleasant character even when sober. Rumours spoke of him informing on neighbours and generally causing trouble for the villagers.

  “Hello, Matilda,” he leered, sitting unsteadily beside her by the well, his eyes glassy. “Fancy a walk down by the riverside? It’s nice at this time of the year with the leaves all orange and stuff.”

  Matilda was horrified at the thought of being alone with Woolemonger, but politely tried to hide her discomfort.

  “No thank you, Simon. The recent warm weather has turned the Calder sluggish. I’m thinking it won’t be too nice down there today.” She stood up and replaced the wooden cup beside the well. “I better get back to work. God give you good day.”

  “Don’t you want a man, girl? That fool Robin’s not coming back for you and you’ll be too old for anyone else soon.” Simon leaned forward and ran his hand along Matilda’s thigh, pressing it against her crotch. “Come on, girl; let’s go down to the riverside where it’s nice and quiet.”

  Matilda was so shocked she froze, but then her revulsion and outrage took over as she furiously slapped him hard on the side of his face. “Don’t you ever touch me, you disgusting old sot! I’d sooner die than have your filthy hands on me!”

  There were a handful of other villagers nearby and they stopped what they were doing to watch what was happening. Some shook their heads at the reeling Woolemonger, while others laughed and shouted insults at him. The drunk staggered to his feet, face flushing scarlet with both embarrassment and Matilda’s slap. He burned with humiliation, but, even in his inebriated state he knew he couldn’t physically attack Matilda in public – she was a popular girl in Wakefield.

  “You think you’re better than us, don’t you, you little bitch?” His eyes bulged and he spat as he spoke. “Well, you’ll pay for that. No woman hits me, you’ll see…”

  “You’re worse than that new prior, Woolemonger, you dirty bastard!” someone howled, as the crowd laughed and jeered at the unpopular drunk again, and he staggered off shouting obscenities at the onlookers.

  Matilda shook her head in disgust and walked back, shaking, to her father’s shop. If only Robin were here, she thought, fools like Simon Woolemonger wouldn’t dare bother me!

  * * *

  Wilfred the baker had a twice-weekly standing order from Lord de Bray’s manor house, for bread and savoury pastries so he readied the delivery to be made the next day, telling Robin and Allan they could travel with him, disguised as travelling minstrels.

  Allan, who had performed many times before falling foul of the law, had his gittern, a small stringed instrument, which he carried everywhere, while Robin had borrowed the baker’s own citole, with its holly-leaf shaped body and short neck. Robin was a passable player, and he, along with the much more accomplished Allan, would often entertain the other outlaws at their camp. The inhabitants of the lord’s manor house would undoubtedly be used to finer entertainment than a couple of scruffy-looking young men playing borrowed instruments, but Wilfred assured them the lord would be happy to hear music in his hall and that he would give them a meal and a night’s shelter in return.

  Somehow, they would have to persuade the girl, Beth, to hide in Wilfred’s wagon before they left the manor house the next morning.

  It was an absurdly simple plan, but, since the lord and his underlings were expecting no trouble, the outlaws hoped it would work well enough.

  “What if we’re discovered though, Wilfred?” Robin asked the baker, who shrugged.

  “I’m almost fifty now, I’m an old man. My wife died fifteen years ago and we had no children. I spend my days making cakes and my nights drinking ale. If it comes to a fight I have little to lose. But, I’ll tell you…I haven’t felt this alive in years! A chance to stick it up those bastards, and help my old friend?” His big red face broke into a huge grin. “Come on lads, let’s go make this delivery.”

  So they set off, Wilfred’s cart fully laden with his boxes of bread and pastries along with some barrels of beer he’d offered to deliver for one of the village brewers. Barrels big enough for a small person to hide in…

  Allan and Robin practised their minstrel act on the road to the manor house, and Wilfred declared himself impressed. They may not have found employment at King Edward’s court, but they were good enough not to be kicked out of John de Bray’s hall after their first tune.

  It was an overcast day, and windy, orange leaves blowing off the trees all around them, but the three men were in good spirits, especially the old baker who saw the whole business as a noble adventure. He had fought in battles himself as a young man, but had thought that was all behind him. He had, in truth, hoped it was all behind him, having seen up close the horrors of war and its dire aftermath. But now, travelling with his bright, confident young outlaw companions, Wilfred felt more excited than he had in twenty years.

  “I can see you lads are still young enough to feel like you’re arrow-proof” – the baker smiled – “invincible almost.” His face became deadly serious. “But you’re not – if we’re caught we’ll be killed. Don’t take this lightly, especially once you get a few ales down you in the lord’s hall.”

  Robin nodded solemnly and whispered a prayer to the Blessed Virgin Mar
y as the manor house slowly came into sight.

  While not as impressive as most of the other lords’ residences in England, it was still an imposing and, to Robin and Allan, worrying sight. It looked more like a small castle than a house, despite the fact Lord John de Bray was only a minor noble, of Norman descent, who counted Hathersage as his only manor.

  A three storey building, built from stone, with heavy oak doors and, Wilfred told them, an undercroft where the food and drink was stored. There were numerous windows, all with glass in them, and even a drawbridge, although the moat was empty of water. There was a single lightly armoured guard at the entrance, who knew the baker from his regular visits to the house.

  “Morning, Wilfred!” shouted the guard, grinning broadly as the old cart rumbled up to the gatehouse. “You got any cakes on that cart for me?”

  The baker smiled and reached into the cart, pulling out a large pork pie. “Here you go, Thomas. Just for you.”

  The guardsman’s eyes lit up and he took a bite of the pie, glancing at Allan and Robin. “Who’s these two, Wilfred?”

  “I met them on the road, Thomas, travelling minstrels they are, on their way to London to make their fortune.”

  The guard laughed sardonically at that.

  “I told them, Tom, wasting their time going to that dump -” the baker smiled – “but I thought Lord de Bray would probably be glad of a couple of minstrels to entertain his hall on a dreary autumn night.”

  Wilfred took out his dagger and handed it over to the guardsman. Robin and Allan did the same with their longbows and bags of arrows, although they both had blades concealed in their clothes.

  The guard, Thomas, still cramming pork pie into his mouth gave the two young men a quick look, and, seeing no other obvious weapons, just the gittern and citole, he waved the cart on through, shouting his thanks again for the pie.

  Wilfred waved merrily as they passed into the courtyard and the two outlaws breathed a sigh of relief. They were in.