Wolf's Head (The Forest Lord)

by Steven A McKay

  John had tied the lord’s fat hands to the arms of a chair, and was questioning him angrily about the location of his money. Bruising was beginning to show on his face, where John had tried more forcibly to extract some information.

  “What’s happening?” Robin asked, quietly, in the silence between one of John’s shouted questions.

  The huge outlaw glared at his young friend in annoyance. “The bastard won’t tell me where his money’s stashed.”

  As he looked at the smug-faced noble, the knowledge of what this man had done to little Beth and her family filled Robin’s mind. In a cold rage he drew his dagger and moved to stand in front of de Bray, who smiled dismally. “You won’t harm me, I’ve -”

  Robin placed his blade on de Bray’s right pinkie and pressed down hard. Blood pulsed wetly and there was an almost imperceptible little thud as the severed digit landed on the lavishly carpeted floor. De Bray screamed like an animal, and thrashed against the chair.

  Little John looked at Robin in surprise, then shrugged and punched de Bray in the guts again, silencing the roaring man.

  “Don’t fuck me about!” Robin shouted, pressing his face against the whimpering nobleman’s. “That’s nothing compared to what’ll happen if I let Will Scaflock in here! Now – where’s the money?”

  De Bray struggled against his bonds, but his feet were also tied to the chair and his efforts simply wasted energy. His eyes bulged fearfully at the long-forgotten name of Scaflock, but he spat a mouthful of blood at Robin and muttered an oath in French.

  Robin looked out into the hallway, and nodded in satisfaction as he saw Sir Richard and his sergeant had cleared all the valuables down to the undercroft. They were ready to leave – all they needed was the lord’s money.

  “Last chance,” Robin told de Bray, as he stood over the bruised and bound Lord of Hathersage. “I don’t have all night, and you won’t have any fingers, or toes, or a cock, or a tongue, left, unless you tell us where the money is.” The young outlaw placed his dagger over the remaining three fingers of de Bray’s right hand, and pressed gently, drawing more blood from the fat digits.

  “It’s hidden over there!” de Bray screamed, his mouth foaming with fear. “Behind the wardrobe, there’s a concealed door, the money’s all in there!”

  His wife mumbled, and tried to shout through her gag, but it was her husband she was raging at, furious at the fact he had given up their wealth to these outlaws.

  “Oh shut up, you sour old bitch!” de Bray shouted back at her, which only made her grunt into the gag even more ferociously.

  Little John laughed cheerfully over at Robin. “Young love, eh?”

  He shoved the heavy oak wardrobe out of the way effortlessly. In the gloomy lighting there was no sign of any obvious hidden doorway, so he and Robin tapped on the wall systematically, looking for hollow spots.

  It didn’t take long to find the cupboard, and Robin prised it open with his dagger. Inside was a large pile of silver coins of all sizes.

  Little John growled happily, like a great mastiff having his ears rubbed. “How much do you think’s in there, Robin?”

  The outlaw leader shrugged, and began scooping the cash into a sack. “We’ll find out back in the greenwood when we count it.”

  De Bray and his wife had given up on their one-sided conversation, and stared furiously at the two outlaws.

  “They don’t look angry enough,” Robin said, thoughtfully, rubbing his injured leg. “Search the room for more hidden compartments.” He watched the nobleman closely, and was rewarded with a look of desperation as John began tapping the other walls in the room.

  There was more still to be found here.

  Before the night was out, they would effectively ruin this man. Robin would be sure of that before they made their way back to the forests of Barnsdale.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “She’s dying!”

  John Hood shook his head in exasperation, waving a hand at his wife to silence her. “No, she’s not, woman!” He stroked his daughter’s pale forehead gently, as tears blurred his vision. “She’ll be fine,” he muttered.

  They sat in their little house in Wakefield, smoky from the fire they had banked high to try and keep the winter chill from their poorly daughter Marjorie’s bones.

  A cauldron of pottage was cooking over the hearth, but it was a thin concoction – mostly water and oatmeal, with no vegetables and little nutritional value. John and Martha kept their strength up by eating lots of bread, but Marjorie had found it difficult to digest the solid food recently, so had been eating little but the watery broth her mother made.

  Martha sobbed at the sight of her little girl – thin at the best of times, but now weak and bedridden as winter closed in and good, nutritious, food became ever scarcer. “She’s ill, John. We haven’t been feeding her well enough.”

  John nodded disconsolately. “Christ knows how Robin turned out so big and strong,” he muttered, “while Rebekah and Marjorie have always been so weak.”

  “Robin!” Martha breathed, staring at her husband.

  “What about him?”

  “He can help! He might be able to find food from somewhere – buy it from one of the other villages! Steal it from someone!”

  “Christ almighty, woman,” John growled. “Now you want your son to steal food from starving people?”

  “I never said from starving people,” his wife retorted. “Some people must have more than they need. Maybe Robin can get fruit and vegetables from them.”

  They sat in silence then, lost in thought, watching their daughter breathing shallowly, and wondering if their outlaw son could help save his little sister’s life.

  * * *

  The outlaws had piled Wilfred the baker’s wagon high with all the money and food they found in Lord de Bray’s house. John had discovered another two hidden compartments in the noble’s bedroom and Robin felt fairly sure they had found everything there was to find. The livid, then pleading, reaction of the lord and his lady gave Robin confidence in the complete success of their evening’s efforts.

  Robin and his men had completely emptied the manor house of anything of value. If they could get the lot back to Sir Richard’s castle in Kirklees de Bray would be ruined, and the Hospitaller would be able to pay off the grasping Abbot Ness of St. Mary’s.

  It had been a good night’s work.

  “All right, Will?” Robin grinned and slapped Scarlet on the back contentedly.

  Will nodded, but didn’t share Robin’s smile. “This is all very good, Robin, we’ve done well here. But I won’t be happy until that bastard is forced out of his house and ruined. Then I’ll hunt him down and really make him pay for what he did to Beth and the rest of my family.”

  Robin promised they’d exact their revenge on de Bray soon, and gave a shout for the wagon to get moving. The inhabitants of the house were all locked in storerooms or cupboards – the outlaws had only been forced to kill two of the guards. The rest, including Thomas, Robin was pleased to see, had thrown down their weapons and allowed themselves to be imprisoned.

  The captives were left with enough food and water to last a couple of days until someone discovered them or they managed to break the doors down. By that time the outlaws would be safely away with their plunder.

  De Bray and his wife were locked in their own bedroom, screaming at each other, which at least made Will crack a small, grim, smile.

  As the cart trundled ponderously out through the gatehouse and onto the road towards Kirklees, Robin sent Matt Groves and Allan-a-Dale to scout the road ahead, just in case anyone tried to stop them. It was the middle of the night, though, and there should be no travellers around at this time.

  Sure enough, they met no one during their nocturnal journey, and were safely inside Sir Richard’s castle in Kirklees before daybreak.

  The Hospitaller was looking forward to a good night’s sleep before paying off his debt to the abbot…

  * * *

  Abbot
Ness, seated on the misericord of St Mary’s Abbey, took a sip of his wine, a very fine red imported from Gascony, and took another mouthful of his dinner. The majority of the monks were eating fish in the refectory, where meat eating was not allowed, but the abbot stuffed himself on beef, pork and bacon in the misericord every day except Wednesday, Friday and Saturday, assuming it wasn’t Lent or Advent. Today, a Tuesday, the abbot was gorging himself on umbles, a great favourite of his: sheep entrails cooked in dark ale, with breadcrumbs and imported spices.

  Outside, frost coated the stained glass windows and thick snow carpeted many parts of the country, but in the misericord of St Mary’s a roaring fire filled the room with heat and light and Abbot Ness leaned back in his chair, grinning contentedly.

  He was entertaining a guest, and was in a very good mood. Today was the deadline for Sir Richard-at-Lee to repay his debt to the abbot. If the Hospitaller knight did not show up with one hundred pounds of silver, the abbot would become the owner of much of the lands adjoining Kirklees. He had already agreed to sell most of it to Lord John de Bray, a neighbour of Richard-at-Lee.

  His guest was Sir Henry de Faucumberg, High Sheriff of Nottingham and Yorkshire. The abbot needed a representative of King Edward’s justice to make his seizure of Sir Richard’s lands legal. Abbot Ness had wined and dined the sheriff all day to gain his good favour, and had given him a substantial bribe of twenty pounds to make sure he was on his side.

  “Enjoying the wine, Henry?” Abbot Ness asked, swilling a mouthful of his own, eyes already red and bleary from too much of the stuff.

  “Very much, abbot,” De Faucumberg smiled, raising his silver goblet in salute to the Gascony’s quality. “I’ve enjoyed your hospitality today.” He placed the cup back on the table and looked seriously at the clergyman. “Don’t mistake me though. I may have accepted your bribe”-

  “It was merely a contribution from the church towards the running of the king’s estates”- Abbot Ness replied hastily, trying to look shocked.

  “As I say,” the sheriff continued as though he hadn’t heard the abbot, “I accepted your bribe. We’re men of the world, you and I. We understand how things are done. If we can help each other out while profiting ourselves, it’s all to the good. Please be aware though, I will help you only so long as what you’re doing is entirely legal.”

  Ness nodded enthusiastically. “Legal. Of course – you can be certain of it! I hope this can be the first of many such visits, sheriff. I’m a very ambitious man, and it’s always good to have someone like you onside.”

  De Faucumberg smiled, and spooned some of his meal into his mouth with a grunt of agreement as a freezing winter wind howled against the windows, the sound of whistling coming from various parts of the room as the draught forced its icy way in. “It’s rumoured that this Sir Richard-at-Lee has been conspiring with the Earl of Lancaster to undermine the king,” the sheriff went on, hunching his shoulders against the cold. “As you know, I’m the king’s man, so if you can bring down the Hospitaller legally, you will find me helpful in future.”

  “Abbot,” a young monk came quietly over the small round table where the abbot and his guest were eating. “The Hospitaller is here to see you.”

  Ness grinned. “At last, he’s finally turned up. This will be fun.”

  The sheriff finished the last of his dinner and pushed the plate to one side. “You’re sure he won’t have your money?”

  The abbot laughed wickedly. “Not a chance. He’s been over the whole north of England trying to borrow money, but no one would help him. I made it known the Church wouldn’t look kindly on anyone loaning money to the father of a murderer.”

  De Faucumberg smiled and picked at a bowl of grapes. He liked how the abbot thought, although he would know to be wary of him in future.

  “Show him in, then, lad,” Ness shouted at the young monk, who scurried off, to return a few seconds later with Sir Richard-at-Lee in tow. Stephen, his sergeant, had been told to wait outside.

  The big Hospitaller was, as expected, poorly dressed, Abbot Ness noted with a smirk, eyeing the man up and down. His armour was dented, his clothes torn and mended numerous times, and he even looked dirty. Almost as if he was trying to look pitiful in the hope of rousing some Christian charity in the abbot. Ness almost burst out laughing at that thought, but restrained himself to a gleeful smile.

  Sir Richard walked over to the small table and knelt humbly before the two nobles. His frayed leather scabbard got stuck under his legs, almost tripping him.

  “Sir Richard,” said the abbot, emphasising the epithet sarcastically. “You came, as agreed. Today is the deadline for repaying your debt to me.”

  “My lord abbot,” Richard bowed his head in assent.

  “Well? You have my money?” Ness leaned forward in his seat, rolling his extravagant wine goblet in his hands, the hugely expensive liquid spilling on the table almost obscenely.

  Sir Richard shifted his weight to a slightly more comfortable position. The abbot had left him kneeling on the floor like a common servant, in a belittling breach of etiquette.

  “My lord,” Sir Richard began, addressing the two noblemen before him.

  “Here it comes: the begging,” Ness whispered theatrically to the sheriff, who nodded distastefully. The sight of a once proud warrior monk bowing and scraping on the cold stone floor disturbed de Faucumberg, even although he desired the ruin of a possible rebel.

  The Hospitaller knight kept his eyes on the floor, ignoring the insulting treatment as he continued. “One hundred pounds is a huge amount of silver. You understand my son did not kill that man on purpose; he was wrongly accused. It was an accident.”

  “Not my concern,” the abbot snapped. “The law set your son’s bail at that amount, and I loaned it to you in good faith. Today you repay me, or I legally,” he glanced at the sheriff, “seize your lands and property. It’s clear to us you’re a man living in poverty. You’re dressed in the manner of a peasant – despite that once fine Hospitaller armour you insist on wearing.”

  Sir Richard’s ears turned red, but he kept his face down until the churchman finished his tirade.

  “Abbot Ness, you know I fought bravely in the Holy Land, in our Lord’s service. Could I not repay some of my debt to you in your service, perhaps as a bailiff or steward?”

  “The man’s desperate.” Sir Henry growled, feeling genuinely uncomfortable at what he was seeing.

  The abbot roared with laughter, wine and crumbs spilling from his mouth unpleasantly, and the sheriff was almost tempted to walk out the room in disgust.

  Abbot Ness wiped the spittle from his lips and, after a time, his face became hard again.

  “Enough of this, nonsense, Hospitaller. Don’t disgrace your knightly Order – or yourself – any further. Since you’ve barely a mark to your name, I’ll call on my colleague here, the sheriff of Nottingham and Yorkshire, Sir Henry de Faucumberg -”

  “’Henry of Hell,’” shouted Richard angrily, referencing the not entirely fair nickname the sheriff had earned for the rumoured treatment of prisoners in his dungeons. The knight raised his eyes at last to glare at his two tormentors.

  “I will call on Sir Henry -of Hell – as you say,” the abbot laughed loudly at that, as de Faucumberg glared back coldly, “to witness my seizure of your lands and estates.”

  “Fine,” the sheriff growled, “let’s get this over with.” He finished his wine and refilled his goblet, hoping the alcohol would make this whole episode more palatable. Abbot Ness produced a small collection of legal documents from a leather bag beside his chair.

  Sir Richard-at-Lee stared contemptuously at the drink sodden abbot seated before him. “You’ve kept me kneeling on your stone floor like a peasant-”

  “You are a peasant, now!” the abbot sniggered, almost choking on another mouthful of wine at his joke.

  Sir Richard stood up.

  Despite his shabby armour and clothing, he was a powerfully built man with the unmistakeable b
earing of a knight. He strode over and stood menacingly in front of the sturdy wooden table Abbot Ness and the sheriff sat at, glaring malevolently down at them, his dark eyes strangely triumphant.

  The two seated men shrank back, as Sir Richard opened his lungs and roared, as if in the middle of a pitched battle somewhere in the Holy Land, “Stephen! Bring me the bag!”

  His sergeant appeared on cue, carrying a clearly heavy sack, and handed it to his master, with an angry glance at Abbot Ness, who sat with a look of bewilderment on his flushed, round face.

  Sir Richard took the bag and leaned forward to shove his face right up against the abbot’s. “Here, you fucking leech. Your money!” and he upended the big sack onto the table. “The rest is outside in a locked chest. Your lackeys are counting it now.”

  The abbot and the sheriff stared open-mouthed as a great pile of silver coins of all sizes rained down onto the table, spilling onto the floor and into their laps as they instinctively grasped at them.

  In total, the outlaws had managed to steal £160 in cash from Lord John de Bray’s manor house, plus a quarter of that again in jewellery, weaponry, ornaments and other valuables. They also managed to carry off a sizeable amount of food which they traded or simply gifted away in the villages surrounding Barnsdale.

  The Hospitaller and his sergeant were given the generous sum of £30 for their help in the robbery, while Robin Hood had agreed to lend Sir Richard the £100 he needed to repay his debt to Abbot Ness, to be repaid whenever the knight was able. The outlaws kept what remained of the spoils – still a considerable sum – in their communal fund to help see them through the winter.

  Sir Richard was in the outlaws’ debt, but he would no longer be in the abbot’s.

  “One hundred pounds!” the big Hospitaller growled. “Exactly what I owe you. If you’d been courteous and treated me with the respect due a Hospitaller knight, you might have been rewarded with more.”

  The abbot looked to Sir Henry de Faucumberg for support, but the sheriff of Nottingham had quietly pushed his chair away from Ness and sat apart as if none of this was any of his business, a small smile of approval playing around his lips. The abbot opened his mouth to say something, but Sir Richard slammed his hand down on the table with a huge thud, cutting him off.