Rise of the Wolf (26 page)

“You've been in contact with him since away back then?” Tuck roared, again grabbing his turncoat companion by the front of his cassock. “How? You never left my sight the whole way here.”

“Gwale. The prior gave me it before we left.”

Tuck's face froze for a second as the full reality of the situation finally hit him. De Monte Martini had planned this whole thing. Osferth befriending him; the tale about the prior knowing the location of Robin's camp; everything... “That's why I slept like a babe those times, yet woke up feeling as if I'd drank an entire barrel of ale by myself. You little shit!” He released Osferth and hammered his fist into the man's mouth, hurling him backwards where he lay sprawled on the bark and moss, a look of shock and disbelief on his face.

“You're supposed to be my friend,” the young monk said through split lips, his eyes filling with tears. “I've come here to save your soul. Why did you hit me?”

Tuck suddenly felt, unbelievably given the circumstances, like he'd just kicked a playful puppy, and he swung back to Robin, his face a mask of fury and confusion.

“Well? What are we waiting for? We all know the whole story now, all about how I was such a fool and led the Raven right to you. Shouldn't we be off before he gets here and kills us all?”

Robin nodded to Little John and Will who gave Tuck a last apologetic look, unhappy to have been witness to their portly friend's humiliation, before they too slipped into the trees and out of sight.

“What about you, friend?” Robin asked James who swallowed the last of the ale in his mug and stood up, grasping his longbow. “You better get off if you don't want to be part of what happens next. Here...” he fumbled inside his gambeson before pulling out a small purse and tossing it the young archer. “For your trouble. Thank you for coming to warn us. There's enough in there to see you right.”

James nodded gratefully but didn't look inside the purse, just held it in his hand as he returned the outlaw captain's gaze. “Seems to me you could do with another longbowman at your side this day. If you'll have me.”

Robin shrugged. Time was running out, Gisbourne would be upon them any time. He didn't know anything about James's life, or why he had come here and now offered to stand with them but it was true – another archer would certainly be useful.

“You're more than welcome to stay,” he nodded. “Keep beside me so you don't get in the way. You must be exhausted after walking all through the night.”

Tuck shook his head in consternation at Robin's words. “You're talking as if you're not planning on escaping. What madness has come over you all?”

In reply Robin hefted his longbow, bending it back to slip the string onto it. “We're done running, Tuck.” He pulled an arrow from his belt and nocked it to the string, raising the weapon as he continued. “For the past two years I've been running. Moving camp every time Gisbourne, or Adam Bell, or the sheriff or whoever got too close. No more.” He pulled back the string to his ear as Tuck watched, eyes widening when he realised what Robin was about to do. “No more running.”

He released the arrow and watched dispassionately as it thudded home in Osferth's heart.

“Now we fight.”

* * *

Sir Guy of Gisbourne reined in his big warhorse and looked warily from side to side, turning his head to do so since his missing left eye hampered his vision on that side. “What about their lookouts?” He lifted his leg over the saddle and slid easily to the ground to gaze into the thick trees that lay about a mile before them. “If they spot us coming there's little point in this – they'll simply run off and we'll be back where we started.”

Matt Groves nodded grimly. “Don't worry about that. Wait here, and look for my signal.”

Gisbourne watched as his sergeant kicked his heels into his mount and galloped off, not along the main road but to the left, through the long grass on the heath that ran parallel to the forest in front of them.

Matt had looked at that forest and knew exactly where a lookout would hide – he'd been an outlaw himself for years hadn't he? He could read the land as well as any of Hood's gang. One tree in particular stood out, even at this distance, for its height and the fact that its branches didn't grow so densely together as those surrounding it. A man could sit comfortably in a tree like that, he knew, with a fine view of the surrounding terrain.

He had to be sure the lookout didn't spot him so he rode for a while until the contours of the land and the sparse foliage dotted around the heath would mask his approach, then he turned his mount and galloped straight forward, towards the forest.

When he reached the thick line of trees he slid to the ground and tied his horse to a sturdy branch, the animal's chest heaving from the exertion but happy to rest and crop the rich grass that grew there. “Wait here, boy,” Matt muttered, patting the horse affectionately. “This won't take long.”

He moved along the edge of the forest quickly, back towards the tall Scots pine tree he'd marked as being the most likely lookout post, wondering as he went which of the outlaws might be concealed there.

“I hope it's that prick Hood himself,” he muttered, although he knew that was unlikely. Robin didn't take many lookout duties since, being the leader, he was needed in the main camp in the event of any danger being sighted but still, there was a possibility he was in the branches of that big tree and if he was... Matt clasped the hilt of his dagger and gritted his teeth, praying to God it
would
be the enemy he so despised hidden in the foliage ahead.

At last the tree came into sight not far ahead, and Groves slowed his pace, stalking through the undergrowth almost silently, his eyes searching for any signs of movement in the branches overhead until, at last, he reached the gnarled, aged trunk and pressed himself against it, listening intently.

He nodded in satisfaction as he spotted the iron nails that had been hammered into the bark to form makeshift steps for someone to climb up. This
was
the tree the outlaws used as a lookout post, now all he had to do was deal with whoever was concealed above...

“We ready to move then?” Sir Guy demanded as Matt Groves returned, his horse's chest heaving with exertion since its rider had pushed hard to make it back to his captain as fast as possible.

“Aye, we can move. The lookout won't be a problem, you can count on that.”

He had a strange sardonic smile on his seamed face that Gisbourne found  repulsive and he wondered what the man had done to the lookout. Probably tortured him before throwing him out of the tree or worse...

“I'll take your word for it,” Gisbourne grunted and turned to face his men, thirty-five well-armed and highly-trained soldiers, addressing them in a low but authoritative voice.  “Listen to me. This isn't your usual gang of outlaws – these men are not some undisciplined peasants carrying sickles and pitchforks. They are not old greybeards, or untested youngsters. Robin Hood was skilled enough to hold his own against me.” Gisbourne could not accept he'd been defeated; it had been a freak accident that had been his downfall, he knew, not any greater skill on the part of the wolf's head. He touched his empty eye-socket thoughtfully before continuing. “His men train hard and many of them have experience in wars, either here or abroad. Although they don't expect us, they will react as soon as we attack – I know this for a fact, as do any of you who were with me when we attacked their camp near Wakefield not so very long ago. So be ready for them. Our victory is certain, but whether you personally live or die this day will count on you being prepared for whatever is thrown at you.”

He stared around at them for a few heartbeats, measuring their resolve, before looking away, apparently satisfied at what he saw reflected in the soldiers' eyes. “Let's move. Be as silent as possible. And one more thing.” As he pushed his mount into a gallop he shouted venomously over his shoulder. “Leave no-one alive. No-one!”

* * *

Tuck stood next to Robin and Little John, holding his quarterstaff tightly, lips pressed together grimly, still shocked by the day's events. Betrayed by his pious friend, who still lay, staring at him from dead eyes, under the beech where he'd been skewered by the outlaw leader's wicked broadhead arrow.

“I don't understand why you feel the need to take on Gisbourne and his men. They'll outnumber you – us,” he corrected himself, realizing he was as much a part of this as any of them now, “probably two-to-one, and it won't be wet-behind-the-ears foresters this time; it'll be hard mercenaries.”

“And they think they'll catch us completely by surprise,” Robin replied, eyes still fixed on the hidden pathway he expected Gareth to appear along at any moment. “They'll get the shock of their lives. We've never had an opportunity like this before, Tuck. Never. We can wipe that bastard Raven off the face of the earth, along with his  right-hand man, Groves.” His voice trailed off as he pictured Matt's hated face, remembered how the turncoat had murdered their friend Much. “The king and the sheriff will hopefully give up persecuting us when they understand it's not worth the price they have to pay. The lives they'll lose if they continue to hunt us.”

Tuck looked at him sceptically. It didn't seem very likely to him that the sheriff would just allow a gang of outlaws to live peacefully in his forest, especially if they were to kill out so many of his own men. Still, it was true that Gisbourne had been a terrible danger to them ever since he'd arrived in Yorkshire the previous year.

“He's grown even more brutal since you've been away in Lewes,” Robin continued. “Taken to burning down peoples' homes and threatening them with worse unless the villagers start to inform on us. It won't be long before the people reach breaking point and give us up.” He took his eyes from the path momentarily to gaze earnestly at the friar. “We won't be able to survive if that happens. This is our chance to put an end to him. We're living our lives in fear – what's the point in that? If we're so frightened of death, we might as well be dead!” He shook his head and looked back into the foliage again, white knuckles betraying his tension at the continued lack of action. “Where the fuck is Gareth? Surely Gisbourne's on his way by now.”

Suddenly there was a small crack from the trees to the side, as of a dried-out twig snapping beneath a person's foot and Robin felt his blood run cold.

“They're here!”

* * *

Matt Groves knew better than anyone how deadly some of the outlaws were. He'd spent years living and fighting beside the likes of Little John and Will Scarlet and even newcomers to the gang like the Hospitaller sergeant-at-arms were well-versed in the arts of war. Matt had seen that for himself when, together with the sergeant and his master Sir Richard-at-Lee, the outlaws had robbed the manor house of Lord John de Bray less than two years ago.

The element of surprise that Sir Guy's men expected to enjoy here today would, though, be enough, along with their greater numbers, to rout the outlaws, Matt was certain. So when Gisbourne signalled their attack and the combined force of Sheriff de Faucumberg's and the Raven's own men moved in to begin the attack the former wolf's head had been somewhat surprised to hear his erstwhile young leader shouting “they're here,” as if he'd been expecting them.

As a result, Matt had held himself back when the rest of the soldiers charged wildly into the clearing behind their black-clad, one-eyed leader. He wanted nothing more than to feel his blade bite into the skull of that bastard Hood, but he sensed something was amiss and the attack might not go quite to plan.

The scale of the rout – the brutality of it – probably shouldn't have been a shock to him, given Hood's lucky escapes in the past, but Groves really hadn't expected this today. The arrows flew from the trees, enormous lengths of ash or poplar, fletched with swan or goose-feathers and tipped with vicious iron heads that could blast right through a man's face or ribcage and out the other side with ease. Now the Raven's soldiers – the men Matt had been living and working with for the past few weeks – were dying in front of him and he was too horrified to help them.

He knew the outlaws' lookout hadn't given away the approach of Gisbourne's men, so how...? Then he spotted the monk, lying cold and dead on the forest floor, an arrow embedded deep in his chest and he cursed, misreading the situation. “Friar Tuck must have known all along, the fat bastard. We weren't springing a trap at all – Hood was the one leading
us
into an ambuscade of his own devising!”

The soldiers' numbers had been drastically reduced as a result of the first few volleys of the outlaws' arrows. Men lay unmoving or screaming in agony on the ground until another missile flew from the undergrowth to silence the pitiful, hellish cries, and Gisbourne's remaining men raced for cover behind the nearest trees, cursing loudly, eyes flickering all around as they searched for leadership which didn't appear to be forthcoming.

“Where the fuck are you?” Matt breathed, crouching low and searching for the Raven. He couldn't see him, or hear his voice in the bedlam that had erupted inside the previously calm forest. “Those arseholes must have killed him. Shit!”

He stared out from behind his leafy hiding place, watching as the outlaws decided their longbows were now ineffective and so appeared from the undergrowth like diabolical wraiths, long-swords drawn and held expertly before them as they moved with terrible efficiency to engage what remained of Gisbourne's great force of men.

He watched as the men Gisbourne had asked him to lead were cut down in front of his eyes. Their numbers were down to only a dozen or so now, although about half of those were giving a good account of themselves as the outlaws engaged them.

Little John was, as ever, wielding his massive quarterstaff, taking on two of the sheriff's blue-liveried men by himself. The staff moved in a blur, knocking the soldiers' blades to the side before first one man collapsed from a horrendous blow to the face, then the second was winded by a thrust to the guts. John appeared to be lost in the battle-fever though, and Matt glared through the leaves as the giant brought his weapon hammering down into his two downed enemies repeatedly until, chests smashed to a bloody ruined mess, the huge wolf's head looked up, crazed eyes searching for someone else to kill.

It was a similar, if slightly less brutal, scene all around the clearing. The soldiers' morale had been crushed by the death of so many of their comrades in that first wicked hail of arrows, and Robin Hood's men had spent so many hours training together that they fought as if they had some strange connection to one another's thoughts.

Matt sucked in a breath hopefully as he saw one of Sir Guy's men raise his sword for a killing blow behind Hood himself who hadn't noticed the man as he stepped out from behind a tree. The soldier's eyes blazed with a black fury as he lunged to skewer the wolf's head's liver and Matt grinned, but the minstrel, Allan-a-Dale, somehow appeared from nowhere, his sword hammering down and sending Gisbourne's man flying forward almost comically onto his face. There was no laughter though, as Hood spun and rammed his own sword-point into the downed man's temple. Even Matt grimaced at the resultant mess.

He watched as Will Scarlet and the snarling Hospitaller, still clad in his Order's impressive armour, fought side-by-side, hacking their way through their enemies with terrible efficiency, long-swords tearing flesh as if it was no more than the leafy green foliage that surrounded them so tightly.

It was painfully obvious to Matt that he was on the losing side. His leader had disappeared within the roiling, violent maelstrom of the outlaws' camp, no doubt impaled by an aggressor's blade, while the rest of the men they'd brought into Barnsdale – trained soldiers every one – were being ruthlessly cut down in front of him. There was no reason for him to die too.

He let go of the yew branch he was hiding behind and turned, sword in hand and still in a crouching position, to make his way back towards the safety of the main road.

A gasp, loud enough to be heard even over the battle that was winding down behind him, stopped him in his tracks and he raised his well-worn blade to face whoever was nearby.

It was the minstrel.

Matt had got along well enough with Allan. The outgoing younger man was essentially a show-off who always wanted to be the centre of attention, but he was a fine swordsman and an even better archer. Matt didn't like the fact the minstrel had been so close to his hated enemy Hood, but he appreciated the man's martial skill and had many happy half-drunken memories of sing-alongs to Allan's campfire performances.

“You!”

The near-whisper was almost a curse, and Matt found himself transfixed by Allan's hateful, venomous glare.

The two men, former comrades-in-arms, watched one another warily, mutual respect holding them in check despite the killing that was still going on behind them.

“You betrayed us,” Allan growled, his hate-filled yet somehow baffled gaze boring into Matt like a drill. “You were one of us! And after everything we went through... you still betrayed us.” He shook his head in wonderment at Matt's duplicity and his mouth twisted in disgust.

That look was enough. Groves had been viewed with distrust and even hatred for most of his life and the sight of a former companion eyeing him with such venom was enough to send him over the edge.

His blade licked out, catching the stunned minstrel on the side of the neck and a bead of crimson appeared as straight as an arrow on Allan's pale complexion. The scarlet line slowly turned into a dripping, gaping wound and the minstrel swayed,  staring open-mouthed at his former comrade before he dropped unsteadily onto one knee, eyes still fixed on Matt in shocked disbelief.

“You filthy old...” Allan's left hand came up, flapping weakly at the bloody abrasion in his neck and he squeezed the skin together as best he could with one hand while brandishing his long-sword desperately in the other. Fear showed in his eyes though, and he tried to raise his voice, to berate Matt, but it was clear he was trying to attract attention to his plight.

Groves wasn't the sort of man to miss an opportunity. His eyes flared and he raised his blade high overhead, looking around for signs of oncoming attack but none of the minstrel's outlaw companions appeared to be close-by so he gritted his teeth and brought his weapon down as hard as he could.

Allan screamed as he saw the blow approach.

It was a pitiful, horrid sound, that made the combatants nearby stare in fear, almost forgetting their own dire peril, and his wide young eyes turned in disbelief to stare at the horrific gaping wound that had severed his right arm almost completely from his torso.

“I always thought you were one of the better ones,” Matt grunted sadly, but he knew his side was losing and he'd become lost in the battle-fever that affected even the best of men. The point of his sword speared forward, directly into Allan's windpipe, silencing the minstrel's voice forever and the former-outlaw dragged his blade free, tearing skin and flesh apart in a bloody spray.

“Over there,” a voice shouted and Matt knew he had to get away before the victorious outlaws found him and saw what he'd done to their friend. He broke into a run, forcing his way through the undergrowth as fast as he could, not even sure which direction he was going, but understanding the need to put as much distance between himself and his pursuers as he could.

He knew how to travel quickly through the densely packed forest, having done it for many years in the not-so-distant past, and it was just as well, he thought, smiling wickedly to himself as a cry of pure grief filled the trees. He knew that voice; Robin Hood had found his brutalized, dead minstrel pal. The smile on Matt's seamed face turned into a grin. Maybe he had lost today, but at least that prick Hood hadn't had it all his own way. The wolf's head still had to find his mate Gareth too...