Rise of the Wolf (24 page)

Little John suddenly stepped back, a look of surprise on his face as Edmond feinted to the left before reversing his momentum and ramming the point of his quarterstaff forward, almost hammering the breath from John. The giant was just able evade the blow but he grinned appreciatively at the gurning tanner and Robin moved away, happy in the knowledge his men were ready for almost anything Gisbourne could throw at them.

“How are they getting on?” He stepped up to stand next to Stephen who watched dispassionately as Gareth wrestled with another recent recruit, Piers, a twenty-two year old clerk from Nottingham who'd been caught fiddling his master's accounts and escaped into Barnsdale where Allan-a-Dale found him before the law could. 

Stephen muttered something Robin couldn't catch but he was sure it wasn't anything pleasant. There was an angry cry as Gareth was tripped by the newcomer, who pinned him until he conceded the bout and Piers jumped up, breathing hard but smiling broadly over at the Hospitaller and Stephen nodded encouragingly, despite his stony expression.

“Well done, lad,” Stephen said to Gareth though. “You're learning. Keep up the hard work. It might not feel like it's worth it but trust me, even taking a beating can be worthwhile. Rest a little then get yourself a practice sword; I'll spar with you for a bit” He cracked a rare, if small, smile and waved the young man away to take some refreshment and catch his breath again.

“He'll never be a fighter,” Stephen muttered to Robin, watching as Gareth shuffled off, holding his back like an old man. “He's just not made for it.”

Robin remained silent for a while. The young man was a valued member of the gang but he wasn't really much use for anything other than as a lookout or a messenger. His youth – he was still only eighteen after all – and skinny frame, meant he was a good, fast runner over long distances but... with the amount of ale the lad had started drinking recently he'd begun to thicken around the midriff and simply wasn't as fit as he should be.

Although they couldn't afford passengers in their group, Gareth's place would always be safe – by rescuing Friar Tuck from the freezing waters of the Don the previous year, saving the clergyman's life in the process, Gareth would always be looked upon gratefully by the men who had all counted Tuck as a great friend.

And yet, Gareth had to watch as the likes of Edmond, and now Piers, joined the group and surpassed him easily when it came to fighting and hunting and general usefulness about the camp. Held back by a body that had never recovered completely from the effects of malnutrition in childhood, Gareth would never be as valued a member of the gang as someone like the old Hospitaller or even Arthur, the stocky, toothless young man from Bichill.

Robin was sure all of that explained Gareth's excessive drinking over the past few months but... it wasn't up to him what the man drank, or how much. As long as it didn't cause them any harm, or bring danger upon them, Gareth could do what he wanted, just like all of them.

“What about the rest of them?” Robin asked, looking around at the other men  training. “How would they fare if, say, a similar number of Hospitaller sergeants were to attack us?”

Stephen took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, looking at each man and calculating their potential in such a confrontation. He nodded at last. “Aye, they'd do alright. I'm not saying they'd win,” he qualified his optimistic assessment, “but they'd hold their own, I'm sure.”

Robin grinned. “Good. There's not much chance we'll be attacked by such a force, but if we're strong enough for that, we should have little to fear from the likes of the sheriff's soldiers or even Gisbourne's better-trained men.” He clapped the sergeant-at-arms on the back gratefully. “You've been a fine addition to our group, Stephen, I'm glad to have you here.”

Stephen returned the smile, happy to be appreciated, but his eyes were hard as he contemplated the circumstances that had brought him there. Betrayed by his own Order after a life of faithful service... it still rankled and always would, he knew.

Suddenly there was a whistle from the undergrowth to the south-west and the two men shared a wide-eyed glance for just a moment before racing to collect their weapons. “To arms!” Robin roared, buckling on his sword-belt and bending his bow between his legs to fit the hemp string to it. “Get your weapons.”

They all knew what such a whistle meant – one of the lookouts was approaching with news of possible danger. Judging from the direction the sound had come from, it was Allan-a-Dale who made his way hurriedly towards the camp and Robin wondered what was afoot.
Let it be Gisbourne
, he prayed,
with just a few men so we can take him out once and for all
.

It couldn't be the king's man, though, Robin knew that was just wishful thinking. The outlaws had a simple but effective system: one whistle meant someone unknown was nearby but not, from appearances, much of a threat. Still, it was always good to be prepared so Robin continued to berate the men in hushed tones for not moving fast enough while Little John and Will marshalled them all into pre-determined places hidden within the foliage or, in some cases, up in the branches of the trees which now wore their almost full summer greenery and – after some judicious pruning – afforded a decent place to conceal a few longbowmen.

Robin himself stood alone, in the centre of the camp waiting to hear from the lookout, but his bow was in his left hand, ready just in case, as Allan jogged into camp, his eyes looking about the small clearing, glad to find everyone in position thanks to his warning.

“What's up?”

“A single traveller, a man, ran into the trees just west of my position,” the lookout reported. “He was blowing hard – looked fit to drop so someone must be after him. He's got a longbow, and looks sturdy enough to be able to use it.”

“Recognize him?”

Allan shook his head. “Never seen him before. He was looking about him though, even up into the trees, as if he knew I – or someone at least – was up there watching.”

Robin raised his voice so the hidden men could hear him clearly. “Any ideas anyone? A single bowman coming from the direction of Selby? Possibly knows we're camped about here? Piers?”

The clerk from Nottingham had come to them in similar fashion, although it had been purely by accident Allan had found him that day and brought him back to Robin and the rest. Maybe this was someone looking to do the same?

“Nothing to do with me,” Piers shouted back, his surprisingly deep voice carrying easily from where he crouched behind a holly bush. “I told my family I was going to hide in the forest but I didn't even know myself whereabouts. No-one could have followed my trail all this time later.”

“I watched for signs of anyone following him,” Allan said, before Robin could even ask. “Couldn't see anyone, but I'm sure he was fleeing from something.”

“Or
to
something....” Robin mused. “Right,” decisively, “Allan, swap places with Gareth. Gareth, you head back to the lookout post and watch for signs of this lad's pursuers; we don't want to find ourselves discovered by an army.”

Gareth nodded and ran to collect his belongings – short sword, a hunk of bread and a skin of ale which he furtively concealed inside his cloak before hurrying off to take up his post.

“Stephen, Scarlet – you two want to come with me?” Robin asked.

It was essentially an order from the outlaw captain, but he held his friends in such high regard that he often framed his orders as questions rather than statements. Of course, Will and the Hospitaller gladly came forward to go with him to find this interloper in their forest.

“Hold your positions,” he told the rest of the men. “John, you know what to do.”

There was a shouted, “Aye,” from the big man who followed it with a, “good luck!” as the three outlaws headed into the trees stealthily, weapons at the ready, curious to see who this exhausted archer might be.

* * *

There was a knock at the door and it opened, letting in the orange glow of sunset.

“Matilda, nice to see you, lass.” John Hood smiled and gestured at one of the empty chairs. “Come and join us,” he said. “We're playing draughts.”

Robin's wife shook her head, looking down at the checkered board to see Martha was beating John quite soundly. “I just came to see if you fancied going for a walk.”

Marjorie looked up. “Nah. Don't really feel like it tonight.” She slumped in her seat, staring at the game board as if she was planning her tactics to defeat the eventual winner.

“Go on,” Martha muttered to her daughter although her eyes never left the little wooden game pieces. “It'll do you good to get some fresh air.”

“I've already had a walk today,” the girl said, meeting Matilda's eyes with a knowing look. “My legs are tired.”

“Oh. Fair enough then. I'll get off home and get back to sorting those feathers. My da got another order from a merchant in another town,” she explained to John who was listening intently. “Apparently our good work on the 'eagle' feather arrows has got around – we've got enough work to last us well into winter. Farewell then.”

She turned to go but Martha finally looked up then, her eyes damp from the smoke and gloom inside the house. “Wait a moment,” she said then turned to address her fifteen year-old daughter.

“What's wrong with you now?”

Marjorie shrugged and Martha wanted nothing more than to reach out and take the girl into her arms. It would be a mistake to do so she knew, so she remained seated and crossed her hands on the table before her.

“You've been brooding for days now. Are you with child?”

Marjorie looked up, shocked, and shook her head. “No, for sure I'm not. What d'you mean asking me that?”

“I'll just be off then,” Matilda muttered, making a grab for the door latch, but Martha glared at her.

“You can just wait there. You're bound up in all this and it's time we had it out.”

“Had what out?”

“We know you've been learning to fight,” Martha replied. “Don't we?”

John nodded, the expression on his face making it clear he would like to be elsewhere right then.

“And we know you've been out hunting. Apparently you've been doing well, at the fighting at least. Isn't that right?”

Matilda nodded. “She's got the same natural skill as her brother. One of you two must have it in your blood.”

“How do you know about it?” Marjorie demanded. “It was supposed to be a secret.”

“We're not stupid, lass,” her father smiled. “It was obvious you were doing something when you started eating more and putting some weight on. We're proud of you. Happy that you've found something worthwhile to do.”

Marjorie returned the smile fondly but her face dropped.

“Spit it out then,” Martha said. “What's wrong?”

The girl didn't reply for a while, as she gathered her thoughts and tried to make sense of her own emotions before even attempting to put things into words her parents would understand.

As if reading her mind Martha laid a hand on hers and nodded. “We'll understand, trust me. You're not the first young girl to wonder what her purpose in life is and you won't be the last.”

Finally, she spoke.

“Aye, Matilda's been teaching me how to use a sword. I've even started showing the other girls the things I've learned. It's been fun.”

“But?” John prodded, gently.

“But...” Marjorie met her father's gaze, disappointment etched in her eyes. “They're all stronger than me. I'm supposed to be their teacher, but the bigger girls could beat me easy, if they wanted to. None of them have – they're all being nice to me. But they could if they felt like it.” She leaned back in her chair, letting her arms flop to her side. “As for hunting... pfft, don't even mention that. I couldn't catch a hare if it was lying dead on the grass. It'd somehow slip through my fingers and escape.”

She sighed heavily. “I'm just not very good at anything. I've tried my best – I've put everything into sparring with Matilda but... I'm useless.”

“You're
not –
”

Martha laid a hand on her husband's and squeezed, silencing him.

“You're not,” he repeated, leaning back himself and looking sadly at his girl who was still little despite her years.

“Look, lass, what is it you think you're going to do with your life?” Martha refilled an empty mug from the jug of ale that sat on the table between them and passed it to her daughter, gesturing the still standing Matilda to help herself to some of the cool liquid. “You think you're going to join the lord's army and go to fight the Scots? No? Well, you plan on joining the foresters? Even though there's not a single woman amongst them? No? Well, what then?”

Marjorie sat in sullen silence, hating the eyes of her family upon her but hating it even more that she genuinely couldn't answer her mother's questions. She really didn't have any idea what she wanted to do with her life but she knew she would never be a soldier or a forester. Even if she
had
been stronger and fitter – women simply didn't do these things!

“What are you saying?” she demanded, meeting Martha's stare angrily. “That I've been wasting my time these past few weeks and months? That I should just give up and go back to doing nothing? Being nothing?”