Rise of the Wolf (15 page)

The bounty hunter swung away and began to walk along the muddy street again, his soldiers, and the anxious headman, following in his wake although one of Sir Guy's men, at an almost imperceptible signal from the wiry man, made his way back along the road they'd just come along.

“I'm fully recovered now,” Gisbourne continued without looking at Patrick. “But, as you can probably imagine – especially after the last time I was in your little village – I'm even more determined to bring that outlaw scum to justice.”

The words were spoken softly but Patrick's mind whirled, wondering exactly what the disfigured man-hunter was going to do. He'd heard the rumours from other villages roundabout ever since Robin's band had defeated the lawmen; rumours of Gisbourne and his men's brutality and merciless persecution of those the king's man suspected of giving aid to Hood and his gang.

Before, Gisbourne had been kept on a fairly tight leash by Sheriff de Faucumberg who'd ordered the bounty hunter not to harm the villagers in his pursuit of the wolf's head. But recently the sheriff's authority had not been enough to rein in the man people called The Raven. He was the king's man after all – sent there by Edward himself to do whatever he could to bring down Robin Hood and his gang.

The people of Yorkshire were terrified of the black-clad soldier, but no-one would stand up to him.

“Have you seen Hood lately?” Gisbourne asked the puffing headman who hurried along, trying to keep pace with the tall soldiers. He might as well have been asking after the weather for all the apparent emotion in his voice, but Patrick, a surprisingly perceptive man, knew better. The Raven wasn't just a master swordsman and a wicked bastard; he was also an actor – a showman. You could never take Gisbourne at face value, for everything he did was calculated, and intended to create the atmosphere of fearful competence that he revelled in.

“No, my lord,” Patrick replied truthfully. It had been weeks since Robin had left Matilda and their young son, Arthur, to return to life in the forest. “The outlaws must have moved their camp somewhere far to the east, for we've not seen hide nor hair of any of them for a long time now.”

Gisbourne turned to look into the headman's eyes momentarily, apparently trying to measure whether he was being truthful or not before, satisfied, the Raven looked away again, continuing his walk towards the Fletcher's house.

Patrick cursed inwardly when he realised their destination. This was bad. Not that many months before another lawman – Adam Gurdon – had come to the village hunting for Robin Hood and had caused more than a little trouble at the Fletcher's house.

“My lord –” he began again but Gisbourne waved a gauntleted hand irritably.

“Shut up, Patrick, you're becoming annoying.”

The headman closed his mouth, his lips pressed tightly together in a bloodless line as he fretted over what was to come. He was pleased to see many of the other villagers beginning to gather behind them and he tried to relax.

When the previous bailiff, Gurdon, had come to Wakefield and arrested Matilda, knocking her father, Henry the fletcher, out cold when he tried to intervene, the locals had been outraged. Robin Hood and his men had managed to rescue the girl though, and afterwards the people of Wakefield had complained bitterly to their then lord – Thomas Plantagenet, the Earl of Lancaster – who told Sheriff Henry de Faucumberg in no uncertain terms to leave the villagers alone in future.

To his credit, the sheriff had never sanctioned the arrest of Matilda Fletcher; indeed he'd known nothing about it at the time and, since then, he'd tried to make sure Gisbourne and the other lawmen in the county left the innocent people of Wakefield pretty much to themselves.

Although Sir Guy's reputation was as fearsome as his appearance, he only had a handful of soldiers with him and, Patrick noticed, many of the villagers carried the tools of their trade: hammers, axes, pitchforks... they could all be lethal weapons in the hands of an angry mob.

There would be no repeat of last year's débâcle, the headman vowed. If the bloody bounty hunter wanted violence the good people of Wakefield would give it to him.

“God's blood!”

Henry's curse carried along the street as the crowd approached the fletcher's workshop and Patrick, trying to act braver than he felt, shoved his way past the soldiers to stand beside Matilda's red-faced father who was finishing arrows with beautiful snow-white fletchings taken from a swan.

“You'll be Hood's father-in-law.” The black knight made it a statement rather than a question and the fletcher simply stood, his fists clenched, glaring at the Raven and his companions and snorting in disgust when he saw Matt Groves, another former outlaw who had come to him looking for supplies not so many months ago.

“Another poacher turned forester,” Henry spat at Groves's feet. “Just like Adam before you, and you remember what happened to him.”

Matt's face burned scarlet with fury and he took a step towards the glowering man but Gisbourne placed a hand on his sergeant's arm and held him in place.

“I've heard the story about Adam Gurdon and his untimely end,” Gisbourne nodded. “I've also heard about your daughter and her part in it. Good teeth, I hear...”

Matt sniggered at that although the bounty hunter hadn't been making a joke and the erstwhile member of Robin's gang moved around to stand behind the Fletcher and his daughter.

“I'm not here to arrest anyone,” Gisbourne went on, to audible sighs of relief from the watching villagers. “I'm simply here looking for information on the outlaws' whereabouts. The king is tired, you see – as am I – of this gang being allowed to wander around Barnsdale as if they owned the forest.”

He turned and addressed the crowd. “Robin Hood and his entire gang are not only outlaws; they're rebels too. They took part in an armed uprising against your king. They also killed a number of my men when we tried to arrest them recently. And that,” he turned back to the look at the fletcher, “is something that cannot be ignored.”

The villagers muttered nervously amongst themselves, sensing life was about to get a lot harder for every one of them if this Raven didn't get what he wanted.

Still, the simple fact was, no-one in Wakefield knew where Hood or his men were hiding out these days. Patrick had told the truth: none of the outlaws had been to their village since the day Sir Guy's men chased them into the greenwood weeks earlier.

Gisbourne absorbed the silence, his irritation rising and finally beginning to show in his demeanour as he turned his single hazelnut eye on Matilda who stood her ground defiantly despite the presence of Matt Groves, breathing noisily through his nose, close – too close – behind her.

“Lady, I have no interest in arresting you. I have no doubt it would draw out the wolf's head, but without any evidence of wrong-doing on your part I, legally, have no reason to take you into custody. The sheriff would be most annoyed if I were to go around arresting all and sundry simply because I felt like it.” He smiled at her and, although it appeared genuine, the expression made her legs feel weak and the fletcher glanced at her in concern but before he could move to steady his daughter Matt Groves grasped her from behind.

It might have been said Groves was trying to help the girl; to stop her from fainting. But, although he did catch her from collapsing onto the grass, his hands came right around the front of her body and roughly squeezed her breasts as he leered into her eyes which met his in fury rather than fear. This wasn't the first time a man had touched her without consent and her blood rose at the filthy lawman's intrusion.

Suddenly, Groves's hands fell away as Henry Fletcher smashed his right fist into the side of the one-time outlaw's face, sending the man crashing sideways. Henry followed up the first blow with another, again to the side of Matt's face, and the unfortunate lawman dropped to the ground like a sack of grain.

The rest of the soldiers moved to draw their swords, and the villagers cried out, moving forward threateningly, but Sir Guy raised a hand imperiously and roared, “Enough!” in a surprisingly powerful voice.

Everyone, even the enraged fletcher, stopped in their tracks to look at the king's man.

“Bastard.” Groves spat into the silence, shaking his head blearily and grasping his bruised cheek which he knew would hurt like hell for the next day or so – might even be cracked or broken. “You have your excuse,” he grunted at his leader. “Arrest the big bastard for assaulting a lawman.”

Henry shouted in outrage and his fellow villagers joined in, their voices clamouring for justice but, again, Sir Guy raised a hand and shook his head for quiet.

“You're newly come to my service,” the Raven said to Matt reasonably. “So this can be a lesson for you: I don't disrespect women, and I don't allow my men to do it either. You laid your hands on the lady Matilda and her father rewarded you handsomely for it.” He spoke to Robin's wife respectfully. “My apologies, lady.”

Matilda bobbed her head in surprise, not entirely sure the whole encounter was real or some strange waking dream, but the bounty hunter continued, turning this time to address Patrick again, although his voice carried to everyone in the village.

“I came here today to give you people fair warning: from now on I expect you to send word whenever you hear news of Hood and his gang. I will return periodically if no messenger from your village is forthcoming and, each time I'm forced to return an... accident will befall Wakefield. I am a lawman, so I must uphold the law and that means I can't arrest any of you without reason – but that doesn't mean God won't strike your homes and workplaces with his righteous anger.”

He suddenly glanced over Patrick's shoulder and pointed. “See there. The good Lord has heard my words and sent his wrath down upon you.”

The headman looked around and his eyes widened in fear.

“Fire!” someone in the crowd shouted. “Fire!”

Although there were other buildings blocking the line of sight, Patrick knew it was his house that was burning, and he remembered the soldier that had left the Raven's party when they'd first arrived in the village. He threw a murderous glance at the smiling Gisbourne before running towards the curling black smoke that marked every villagers nightmare. Unchecked it would spread quickly between the wooden houses, the sparks and embers jumping between the dry walls and thatched roofs and, quite possibly, destroying half the village before it could be brought under control.

Everyone except the Fletcher and his daughter raced to gather water from the great butts they kept filled from the waters of Balne Beck to extinguish the fire in the centre of the village.

“Make sure you and your townsfolk heed my words,” Sir Guy said to Henry who pulled Matilda in close beside him defensively although the soldiers were turning to leave, Matt Groves still glaring balefully at the fletcher. “No more will the people of Yorkshire harbour outlaws. I
will
bring the king's justice to Hood; in the name of God I swear it.”

With that, Gisbourne walked back along the street, his men trailing at his back like a pack of faithful hunting dogs. The fletcher and his daughter watched him go, fear making an icy pit in their guts.

“What are we going to do?” Matilda whispered.

But Henry had no answer for her.

“Fire!”

The cries rang out in the cool night air and, as the monks blearily hauled themselves out of bed and understood what was being said, panic quickly set in.

It hadn't been Tuck's preferred way to get Prior de Monte Martini out of his bedchamber; he'd tried simply climbing up some handily placed ivy to his superior's window first, but the accursed plant had torn itself free from the wall under Tuck's weight and he'd found himself on his backside with a none-too-Christian oath on his lips.

So, unknowingly echoing Sir Guy of Gisbourne's arson back in Wakefield, Tuck had asked Osferth to go and set alight to one of the small wooden outbuildings within the grounds. It was far enough away that the friars would be able to douse the conflagration before it spread and became truly dangerous, while being just close enough to the main priory building that the sight of the flames licking skyward would be sure to cause havoc, if only for a short time, until the water buckets could be fetched and do their job.

Tuck stood concealed in the shadows outside the prior's private chamber, listening to the muffled shouts from outside. They were punctuated now by crashing sounds, as of timbers collapsing and the burly former outlaw shook his head irritably. Clearly Osferth had set a larger fire than he'd been asked. Tuck should have guessed as much when he'd seen the gleam in the younger man's eyes as he'd crept off to gather a tinderbox and some kindling.

The man's a pyromaniac
, Tuck thought just as footsteps came hurrying along the high-ceilinged corridor and he pressed himself further back against the wall so the flickering orange glow coming through the few windows wouldn't reveal his hiding place.

It was Ralph, the prior's bottler, who ran to the sturdy door and pounded his fist on it. “Wake up, father! There's a fire! Fire!”

Still, there was no sound of movement from within the chamber and Ralph began to hammer on the door again, stepping back hastily when it was pulled open and the angry red face of de Monte Martini loomed into the dimly lit hallway.

“Yes, yes, I heard you. St. Peter himself must have heard you at the gates of Heaven, by God. Let me gather –”

“No time, father!” The bottler waved his hands in the air and practically hopped on one foot, causing Tuck to stifle a laugh in his hiding place. “Your safety is more important than any worldly possessions. Come, we must go now – everyone else is outside helping fight the blaze.”

De Monte Martini stared at the nervously flapping man and shook his head in disgust before sighing heavily and shrugging his shoulders. He stepped into the hall and used a key to lock the big door then allowed himself to be led away to the nearest safe exit.

As soon as the pair turned the first corner Tuck took a deep breath and charged at the door which gave way much easier than he'd expected it to and he stumbled to a halt,   breathing heavily, his eyes taking in the surroundings, searching for the little reliquary that he'd come to know so well.

The prior, of course, didn't clean his own chambers. Lower brothers of the order changed de Monte Martini's bedclothes, dusted his furniture, swept the floor and performed all the other menial tasks to keep the room in good order. The prior had been careful never to allow Tuck into the chamber, not trusting the former outlaw within his own, personal, quarters, but Osferth had sometimes carried out the cleaning chores in the large room.

“It's a fancy place,” he'd told Tuck earlier that evening. “There's expensive rugs on the floors, fine tapestries depicting scenes from Christ's life on the walls, and on his chests of drawers he displays all the really fine relics he's collected over the years. That one you're looking for will be there, I'm sure, although I've not been in there since you came back so can't say for sure.”

Tuck had been disgusted to learn the prior hoarded religious artefacts to display in his own chamber, for his own private delight. Now, as the friar stood looking around the room his disgust turned to anger.

There was a fortune in holy trinkets dotted about the place, some with fine engraved gold information plates underneath them that were probably valuable enough to be called treasures in their own right.

A towel Christ had used to dry his face; a fine silver cup that had apparently belonged to St Stephen; a glass vial of the Virgin Mary's breast milk; a little jar with some of the clay Adam had been fashioned from; thorns from the crown the Romans had forced onto the Lord's head before he made his final journey to Golgotha...

It was obscene. These spiritual marvels should be available for all to venerate. Who knew how many sick people could be cured by the touch of one or other of these? Yet here they sat, hidden from the world, so de Monte Martini could bask in their glory himself. It was, truly, a despicable sin.

Finally, his roving eyes came to rest on the one particular relic he sought and he hastily grabbed it, shoving the artifact into the pocket sewn inside his grey cassock before turning to leave.

And stopping dead in his tracks.

Prior John de Monte Martini stood, mouth open in shock, glaring at him murderously. “I knew you were wicked,” he hissed. “I should have handed you over to the law when you came crawling back here. You must have been right at home with those filthy outlaws, you devil.”

Tuck had no idea what to do. If it had been anyone else, he'd have simply knocked them out of his path but... despite the fact de Monte Martini was hardly a beacon of piety, the man was, still, a prior and, in theory, much closer to God than Tuck.

The prior's eyes flicked behind Tuck and noticed the empty space where the ornate reliquary should be. “Ah, so that's it,” he smirked triumphantly. “We can add the sin of theft to your long list of crimes.”

As the man opened his mouth to shout for help Tuck thought of the hoarded relics and the prior's all-encompassing greed. He thought of the brothels de Monte Martini owned. And he thought of Robin Hood and the rest of his friends whose location the prior's own messenger would, any day now, hand over to the one-eyed bounty hunter known as The Raven.

Before any sound could escape his superior's lips, Tuck balled a meaty fist and punched him on the nose, knocking him backwards into the door-frame which he slid down, to sit on the floor clutching his bloodied face. It had been a heavy blow, with many years of pent-up frustration behind it, and the prior sat, too dazed to move or even say anything. It wasn't the first time he'd suffered a broken nose: that young whoreson Hood had done the same thing to him two years earlier, an action that had, unbeknown to any of them at the time, set all these events in motion.

Unlike Robin though, Tuck had no desire to continue the assault. Indeed, he'd shocked himself by lashing out at de Monte Martini, and he knew now there was no turning back from the path he'd set himself upon. The law would be after him, the prior would see to that, and he'd hang like Sir Richard-at-Lee had – another enemy of de Monte Martini – the previous summer.

With a final glance at the dazed prior Tuck hurried from the room, picked up his quarterstaff and small pack that he'd left in the shadows and left Lewes Priory for the last time.

* * *

Sixty miles north of Lewes where Tuck and his new travelling companion, Osferth, were hastily making their escape from the outraged Prior de Monte Martini, Robin and Little John had just left London. They retrieved their concealed weapons from the thick foliage outside the city then headed back onto the road to Nottingham with the invaluable letter from the king to Sheriff de Faucumberg.

“He seemed a good lad,” John said, and had to repeat himself when his words were lost behind their cantering horses as the pair tried to get home as quickly as possible.

“Who?” Robin shouted, looking over in puzzlement before turning his eyes back to the road ahead, the muscles in his thighs burning already as he gripped his palfrey too tightly for fear of falling off. He would never be much of a horseman he thought, trying to relax a little.

“The king! He seemed like a nice enough sort. I'd like to share a few ales with him, I bet he'd be a fine drinking companion.”

Robin grinned at his friend's idea, imagining Edward spending a night by their campfire in Barnsdale with the grumbling Will Scarlet and the Hospitaller sergeant, Stephen, not to mention Allan-a-Dale and his ribald songs.

He pulled his horse's bridle gently to the side to slow it without hurting its mouth then let the beast continue at a walk which was much less painful on the young man's inner thighs. John noticed Robin's change of pace and checked his own mount, taking up position beside his friend.

“D'you think Allan's all right?”

John puffed up his cheeks and exhaled softly, brow furrowed. “No idea. You know better than me what it's like in Nottingham's dungeon. The sheriff didn't hang him straight away though, so hopefully that's a good sign.”

Robin didn't answer. It wasn't the sheriff he was worried about, it was Sir Guy of Gisbourne...

“Imagine if he'd not been caught and had actually won that silver arrow,” John said, watching his leader's sombre introspection. “How much do you think it's worth?”

Robin glanced across at the big man and smiled. “God knows – enough to buy us all pardons though. I suspect that's why Allan went into the city on that fool's errand in the first place. We spoke about it the night before he and Gareth left.” He stopped short of blaming himself out loud for the whole mess, knowing John would just get irritated with him. Still, if he hadn't suggested the idea...

“Cheer up,” John growled. “God works in mysterious ways, as Tuck was always telling us. We might still find the money to bribe some rich gentleman. After all, who would have believed a couple of outlaws would see and do everything that we have?”

It
had
been a strange time for the young outlaw leader. He'd been expecting to follow in his father's footsteps as a forester until that fateful Mayday in 1321 when his world had been turned arse-over-elbow and he'd found himself, lonely and frightened, in the forest with only a rudimentary knowledge of how to use his da's old sword and the longbow he'd spent years mastering but had never used in anger.

Now, here he was, on his way back from the most incredible city he'd ever seen or ever would see, after meeting the king himself!

John was right too – Edward did seem like a good sort. A man to drink with, indeed. Perhaps that was the trouble. Rather than spending evenings in village taverns with individual commoners like blacksmiths, as he notoriously had in Uxbridge, the monarch might have been better trying to do more for that whole underclass in general over the years by lowering taxes and holding back the marauding Scots as his father had.

“If he ever comes into our forest,” Robin said, grinning, “we'll...
invite
him to dinner, as we did with Sir Richard.”

The grin slowly left his face as he remembered their fallen comrade. The big Hospitaller knight had been a good friend to the outlaws but, like so many others in his life – not least his childhood friend Much – was now dead and, hopefully, buried, although it was probably more likely the knight's body had been left to rot on the gallows that stood so threateningly by the road outside Nottingham's walls.

Robin pictured his son, Arthur, and his spirits rose again. People lived and they died, it was the way of things. All he could do was continue to do his best for those who depended on him – not only his little son, but the other outlaws who looked to him for leadership as they struggled just to survive and stay one step ahead of Sir Guy of Gisbourne and the foresters that scoured Barnsdale for poachers and rebels and other criminals like them.

He kicked his heels into his mount and drove it ahead of John's horse, gritting his teeth in determination. Aye, he'd make sure they all stayed out of Gisbourne's grasp and he would, somehow, see all his friends pardoned: free men.

But first, they had to get Allan-a-Dale out of Nottingham's jail, and, despite their letter from the king, it wasn't going to be easy...

* * *

“What's that you've got there, Tuck? Is that a sword?” The youth hooted derisively and Marjorie felt her face flush in embarrassment as her tormentor's companions giggled along with their leader.

She'd been lost in thought as she made her way to another all-too-rare sparring session with Matilda. Sir Guy of Gisbourne's recent visit to Wakefield and his subsequent burning of Patrick Prudhomme's house had outraged the girl. All the people of the village just stood by while the so-called Raven came along, threatened them all, then set alight to their headman's own home. If she'd been strong enough she'd have stood up to the crooked lawmen she thought, and it had given her even more desire to build her strength and skills.

She hadn't noticed the three younger girls loitering near the outskirts of the village until one of them had shouted at her.

Marjorie's practice sword had been safely tucked inside her skirts as she walked through the village but, at the worst moment, had worked itself free of its restraint and fallen between her legs to land on the ground with a small thump.

Of course, Helen, one of the village bullies, had been standing with her companions just as Marjorie passed and she'd spotted the training weapon when it dropped onto the sun-baked road.