Rise of the Wolf (18 page)

The spectators crowded in around them while Groves and Gisbourne's men were shepherded away by the sheriff's soldiers. De Faucumberg himself stood watching, wondering what to make of the day so far.

Yes, he'd lost the chance to execute one of Robin Hood's gang, and on top of that he'd been forced to let Hood himself, along with his giant right-hand man, walk free. But Gisbourne, and now his vile little toady Groves, had been sorely humiliated and that shot the young man had made... it was the stuff of legend. People would tell stories and sing songs about the sheriff's tournament for months once the minstrels got word of what had happened here...

De Faucumberg looked at Allan-a-Dale, wondering what song the man would concoct, and he noticed the minstrel was chanting something already, leading the people who had by now hoisted Hood onto their shoulders.

The crowd swelled even further as the news of what had happened spread throughout the city and the chant slowly grew in volume until the sheriff could pick out the words and, slowly, his mood turned black.

“Silver arrow... Silver arrow... Silver arrow..!”

It was Gisbourne's turn to grin, and the bounty hunter laughed at the sheriff's consternation. “Not so fucking cheerful now, are you?”

“I promise you, you'll like Robin,” Tuck smiled at Osferth, the affection he felt for the outlaw leader plain on his jowly face. “Everyone likes Robin. Well, apart from Gisbourne. And the sheriff. And Adam Bell. And Matt Groves...” His face broke into a wide grin and he waved his hands happily. “Everyone else likes him though.”

Osferth had noticed a major transformation in the friar since they'd left Lewes behind them and headed farther north. While he'd always seemed confident and competent and hid his emotions fairly well, Tuck had been subdued and plainly unhappy when he was cooped up inside St Mary's. Now, though, it was as if the man had grown ten years younger physically, and thirty years had dropped from his mental age, so he grinned and hummed hymns like a spry novice. Clearly the thought of joining up with his outlaw friends was pleasing to the aging Tuck.

The journey wasn't as swift as it might have been – Osferth may have been somewhat touched but his devotion to Christ couldn't be questioned. He insisted on saying prayers eight times a day, from Lauds at five in the morning to Compline in the evening and everything in between – just as they'd have done had they still been in the priory. Tuck fidgeted irritably every time they dallied with the worship but he felt guilty to have drawn his younger companion into this adventure and, as a result, he bit his tongue and joined in with the Pater Nosters, Ave Maria and Credo.

In truth, Tuck was somewhat taken aback by just how devout Osferth really was. Someone like him should have been at home in St Mary's and yet, here he was, tagging along with the former-wrestler having been more than happy to give up his life as a clergyman. True, Prior de Martini had been hard on Osferth, but still, people like him often saw that as a trial sent by God, or penance for some unknown sin.

It certainly made the journey more pleasant, if rather slower, having the man along. Flight from the authorities could be a frightening, lonely experience and Tuck was glad to have Osferth with him to keep his mind from their potential troubles.

“I've never been this far north,” Osferth said, looking about him, eyes wide as if the land thereabouts was somehow different to Sussex where he'd spent all of his thirty-odd years. “I feel like Joseph of Arimathea, travelling north to strange new lands, carrying the word of God and Christ to any who'd listen.” He smiled and Tuck smiled back, happy to be with such a delightfully strange travelling companion.

“I have a feeling Prior de Martini doesn't see us in the same light.”

“Maybe not, Robert, maybe not,” Osferth shrugged. “But God works in mysterious ways. Who knows what the prior is thinking right now? We're all tools of the Almighty after all – even Prior de Martini.”

“That bastard's a tool of Satan,” Tuck grunted, touching a hand to the crucifix he wore around his neck to avert any evil that might be drawn to them by the Dark One's name. “I thought that was why you'd come with me.”

“It is,” Osferth agreed, nodding vigorously. “I couldn't stay in the priory any longer – De Martini isn't fit to be in charge of our brothers. So... tell me about the giant: Little John.”

The abrupt change in the conversation threw Tuck, but he'd come to expect odd behaviour from his companion, whose thoughts seemed to flit from one place to another like a sparrow seeking a mouldy crust. And Osferth was just as innocent as one of the little birds, even if he did appear to have something of a dark streak hidden just beneath the surface. Tuck wondered what they would do with the strange, child-like monk when they finally reached Barnsdale and found the outlaws.

But they would cross that bridge when they came to it. For now, Osferth had asked about Little John and there was nothing Tuck liked better than telling tales about the exploits of his old friends.

“Huge he is. Massive! Biggest man you've ever seen in your life.”

Osferth listened, eyes shining with interest as their mounts carried them north, and Tuck knew he'd chosen the right path. God was leading him home.

* * *

“I can't give him the arrow, in the name of Christ. It's worth a fortune. We had it made from solid silver, remember?”

“I don't think you've got much choice,” the grinning Gisbourne said, nodding his head towards the huge crowd that had gathered and was continuing to swell as the chant increased in volume. “The people have decided Hood's the winner of your tourney.”

“Silver arrow! Silver arrow!”

“Fuck the people,” de Faucumberg shouted, eyes blazing and spittle flecking his neatly-trimmed grey beard. “We're to let three notorious outlaws walk free, taking my silver arrow with them? How will I pay the taxes to the king without the silver in that arrow? This is your fault, Gisbourne, you fucking oaf. You had the clever idea to offer a real silver arrow and now look where it's got us.”

Sir Guy shrugged, the smirk ever-present on his ruined face now. “It was a quite remarkable shot, you must admit – certainly worthy of winning the arrow. And it
is,
as you noted yourself not long ago, King Edward's orders that the wolf's heads should be allowed to walk free.”

As they spoke, de Faucumberg realised a new chant had begun and now vied with the first for dominance. The sheriff groaned as the cries of “Robin Hood! Robin Hood!” filled the air and Allan-a-Dale clapped his hands encouragingly with the people that stood closest to them.

This was a disaster; another little story at his expense to add to the burgeoning legend that surrounded this young outlaw from Wakefield and his gang.

“Silence!” de Faucumberg roared, holding his hands aloft and looking murderously at the noisy mob before him. “Silence!” He beckoned to one of his soldiers and whispered in his ear. “Go to the castle and bring reinforcements, enough to quell any rioting here.”

The crowd had stopped their chants, eager to hear their sheriff's words. They had no idea the silver arrow had simply been a ruse designed to lure Robin Hood to Nottingham. No idea that any eventual winner was never supposed to be allowed to keep the magnificent, and insanely expensive, piece.

“Good people of Nottingham, and visitors to our fine city,” the sheriff began, forcing a benevolent smile onto his face, “you are right: before us stands the famous outlaw, Robin Hood, with two of his friends.”

“That's Little John that is,” someone piped up from within the crowd, and his assertion was met with agreement from all around. “Aye, must be – look at the size of the bastard, he's huge!”

John smiled a little shyly, his face turning red from the attention, not to mention the not-inconsiderable weight of Robin atop his shoulders, but de Faucumberg carried on, drawing all eyes back to himself.

“Hood has made a remarkable shot using a borrowed longbow –”

“Miraculous!”

“Never seen anything like it!”

“Yes, an excellent shot,” the sheriff nodded, smiling in agreement. “And, as a reward, I will allow Hood and his two friends to go free, although I
should
place them in chains and throw them into the castle jail to await justice.”

The crowd began to grumble and mutter and the sheriff again raised his hands. “The tournament is not over yet; it would not be fair to award the silver arrow to someone that wasn't even a listed competitor and, as such, is not entitled to any prize.”

The sheriff watched the crowd, as did Gisbourne beside him and it seemed the speech had done its work. The words were reasonable and fair and the people seemed happy enough to accept it.

Then the two noblemen spotted Allan-a-Dale saying something to the red-haired archer that Hood had taken the longbow from. The man nodded thoughtfully at whatever the wolf's head was telling him then he looked up from beneath the flaming curls and shouted towards the raised table.

“None of us will ever beat that shot, my lord sheriff. It was a once-in-a-lifetime effort. I forfeit any claim to the silver arrow for I'll never best that man's skill, aye, even if I lived 'til I were a hundred years old!”

Some of the other archers nodded and shouted agreement, giving up any claim to the great prize and, again, the troublemaking minstrel started the chanting.

“Silver arrow! Silver arrow! Robin Hood! Robin Hood!”

“Worthless bastard,” de Faucumerg muttered, looking murderously at the clapping minstrel. “I should have hanged him the first day we had him in custody. Silence!” Again, he raised his hands and waited on the noise to abate before he spoke once more into the calm.

“I will not turn over the prize to an outlaw. It is enough that he's being given his freedom this day although, mark this well, Hood: Sir Guy and his men, along with my own garrison, will still be doing everything in our power to put an end to you and your criminal gang.”

“You can bet your life on it,” Gisbourne spat, pointing the tip of his elegant sword at the outlaws. “I won't rest until you're dead, you scum.”

“Give Hood the arrow you swindler,” someone shouted from the safe anonymity of the mob and many others cried out in angry agreement.

“Give him it or we'll burn the city to the ground!”

There were cheers at that shout and de Faucumberg noticed Allan-a-Dale had disappeared into the crowd. No doubt it was the minstrel who was trying to stoke the ire of the people and, unfortunately, it seemed to be working, as cries of “burn it!” began to ring out from various sections of the gathering.

From far to the rear of the mob there was a crashing sound as one of the vendor's stalls was tipped over and smoke slowly curled upwards from it, forming a greasy smear in the afternoon sky.

“Burn it to the ground!”

Another stall crashed over and some of the people began to howl and laugh making the sheriff realise his extra soldiers, who were now jogging into view, were not going to be able to contain this without a great deal of bloodshed. De Faucumberg was not the type of sheriff to deal with civil unrest with displays of brutality and killing, but that arrow... it was worth a fortune! He'd have to make up the missing tax monies from his own purse if he handed it over to the damned wolf's head.

“Whatever you're planning,” Gisbourne barked, interrupting the sheriff's whirling thoughts, “you better get on with it. Either give Hood the arrow or set your men to cracking heads. That lot are about to erupt.”

True enough, more and more of the people were joining in with the chants now, not just for the arrow and the outlaw, but, as they visibly steeled themselves for the inevitable outpouring of rage and destruction that accompanied any riot, many of them were taking up the cries of, “burn it!”

“Oh for Christ's sake. Alright!” De Faucumberg turned and waved a hand angrily towards the heavily guarded table that displayed the wondrous arrow. “Bring it to me, man, now.”

The soldier that had been addressed hurried to obey, not relishing the idea of wading in amongst his own townsfolk with the halberd he wielded, simply to save the sheriff some money. He lifted the arrow, which was surprisingly heavy thanks to the high quality of the silver that had been used to construct it, and brought it over to his lord and commander.

“Come and get it, wolf's head,” the sheriff shouted, shaking the arrow in the air furiously as the people, who had been readying themselves to go on a rampage now switched their mood and began to cheer and hoot in delight at their apparent victory over the nobles.

“Let me down,” Robin said and John slowly bent his knees so his passenger could  slide onto the ground. “Here, cover me.”

He handed the giant the longbow, noting with satisfaction that Allan had also managed to procure one of the weapons from somewhere, then, making his way through the grinning crowd, he walked up the small flight of steps to the high table.

Sheriff de Faucumberg dropped the heavy silver trophy into the outlaw's open palms and Robin turned, a wide grin forming on his honest face as he raised the arrow skywards and was rewarded with a deafening cheer.

“Thank you, my lord sheriff,” the young wolf's head winked over his shoulder as he danced past the impotent guards, down the steps and back towards his friends. When he reached them he looked at John and gestured for the giant to hand the longbow back to its red-haired owner. “Now, give me a boost.”

John cupped his hands and Robin stepped into them, rising in the air so the entire crowd could see him. “This is a fine prize, my friends,” he shouted, “and worth a fortune!” The people cheered and clapped, assuring him he deserved it for his fine shot. “But my companions and I have no use for wealth and finery in the greenwood. All we need are arrows, and food and friendship, and ale!”

“Lots of ale!” Little John roared agreement and everyone cheered again, thoroughly enjoying themselves.

“We'll take the sheriff's silver prize back to Barnsdale and cut slivers from it which we'll distribute amongst those most needy in the towns and villages hereabouts. God bless you all!”

The people went crazy, chanting Robin's name and patting the three outlaws on the back as they headed towards the city gates and freedom.

Sir Henry and Gisbourne watched them go, faces tight with rage and defeat.

“Look at the smug bastard, he has them eating out of his hand,” the bounty hunter spat.

“This is your fault,” de Faucumberg repeated his earlier accusation, turning to include Matt Groves who had reappeared behind his captain, Sir Guy. “You and that vermin. Not only was it your idea to offer the silver arrow as a prize, but it was your lackey's attempt to kill Hood that made the outlaw grab the longbow. If you'd have just let him leave like I ordered, Hood would never have made that unbelievable shot and I wouldn't be hundreds of pounds out of pocket!”