Rise of the Wolf (The Forest Lord Book 3)

by Steven A McKay

The cell was cold, despite the time of year, and the floor was sodden with piss and God knew what other filth. The sunlight didn't reach down here under Nottingham Castle but the rats and insects did and, after his beating from Gisbourne, Allan felt like he was going crazy. The smell wasn't an issue any more; he'd grown used to that, which was surprising given how hellish it was. No, the disgusting little sounds of rats and mice and – he shuddered – whatever else was down there with him, crawling about the walls and floors of his cell tortured him. He was a minstrel – he wanted to hear the open chords of a gittern, the perfectly tuned strings of a fine citole or the sweet singing voice of a young girl singing.

  “Let me out you bastards!”

  Allan groaned and dropped his head into his knees at the crude, echoing shout from one of his fellow prisoners somewhere along the gloomy corridor. If it wasn't dark slithering and scratchings it was half-mad rants from the other poor unfortunates that were imprisoned in the inky blackness alongside him. And now, the ever-present fear that Gibourne might return for round two...

  Ah, well, at least he had a cell to himself. Praise God for small mercies.

  “In here, dickhead.”

  The iron-strapped door swung open and Allan shrank back against the wall, drawing his legs up against him, eyes burning in the light of the torch that was carried by one of the sheriff's guardsmen.

  An old, old man was pushed into the cramped room, falling to his knees with a whimper, and the door was slammed shut again, the lock clicking into place with the finality of a tomb.

  The minstrel said nothing, just stared, unseeing, at the dark spot where his new cell-mate had been deposited. The man breathed heavily but there wasn't enough light to make him out and Allan sighed.

  “Stay away from me.”

  The newcomer shrieked and Allan could hear him scrabbling away on his hands and feet into the far corner.

  “Please, don't hurt me.”

  “Relax, old one. We're all in the same boat down here. Our time will come soon enough.”

  The harsh breathing softened eventually and Allan, starved for company asked the man's name.

  “Edward,” came the reply and Allan smiled in the darkness.

  “Pleased to meet you, Edward. Shame it wasn't in happier circumstances.”

  The old man grunted self-pityingly. “You?”

  “Allan-a-Dale.”

  There was another grunt, although this one was more like laughter. “Funny name.” The prisoner must have realised laughing at someone down here wasn't a good idea, as he hastily added, “No offence, mind.”

  “None taken,” Allan replied in a voice that suggested the exact opposite. “You might have heard the name before?”

  There was silence from the opposite end of the cell and Allan sighed. Everyone knew Robin Hood and Little John and Will Scarlet, thanks in part to Allan's own songs. Yet few knew of the minstrel himself.

  “What you down here for?” the old man wondered, his voice growing stronger, more confident as time passed and his companion hadn't stove his head in. “They caught me stealing a sheep. Bloody shepherd claimed he saw me having relations with it but he's a damn liar. I just wanted to eat the woolly bastard, not hump it.”

  Allan sat in silence for a long while wondering what in the name of Christ the guards had put in his cell with him then, eventually, he shrugged. He was bored, and an audience was an audience.

  “I'm a minstrel,” he began, his voice rising and seeming to fill the little cell with its power.

  “Alright, no need to shout,” his new cell-mate grumbled. “I'm only over here.”

  “I'm also one of Robin Hood's men,” Allan went on, in an imperious voice, angry at the man's interruption. It seemed to do the trick – the old sheep... thief, held his peace after an almost imperceptible indrawn breath and the minstrel nodded into the dark in satisfaction before continuing.

  “I've always been a musician – I was born to it. My mother and father were part of a big troop that travelled all around the country performing for lords and ladies. Sometimes they even went to France although I must admit I've never been there myself.” He coughed, the foetid air clogging his lungs, then went on with his tale.

  “We made a decent living and it was a fine life. Better than toiling in the fields that's for sure. I had an older brother, Simon and we'd often perform together, just the two of us, both playing the gittern. We worked out how to play different harmonies and things, you've never heard anything like it before. People loved it.”

  “How'd you end up in this shit-hole then, if you were so good?” the old man demanded.

  “We played in Hull one night, at the lord's manor house. We went down well; everyone loved us. But the lord, I forget his name now... Christ I remember what he looked like though, lanky prick. Wish I could have five moments alone with him... Anyway,” Allan growled, remembering where he was, “the lord tried to underpay us. He only gave my father half the agreed fee and, well, our troop didn't take it too well.”

  Allan sighed heavily, remembering that morning almost as if it had been a week rather than over a decade ago.

  “A fight started and the lord was badly injured. My brother and I were in the thick of it – I think it might even have been me that stabbed the nobleman but everything was happening too fast. It was all a blur. We were well outnumbered by the guards though, so we forced our way out of the manor house, the women and children jumping into our wagons and riding them off as fast as they could. We made our way along the road to the next town, pissed off that we'd been underpaid but, God's bollocks, our blood was up from the fight – we'd shown that fucking lord not to mistreat us.”

  “Did they follow you?”

  “Aye,” Allan nodded. “Some of them did. The more vicious of them; the ones that couldn't accept defeat at the hands of some minstrel band...” His voice trailed off and there was silence for a time, unbroken even by the skittering of rats. “There wasn't enough of them to stop us and mount a proper attack so they just hit us once from the rear and rode off, shouting and laughing. Me and my brother were riding rearguard – I did my best to fight them off but Simon... he was cut down like wheat under a farmer's scythe.”

  A prisoner's maniacal laugh echoed along the corridor incongruously and Allan, finally giving in to the fear and stress that had been slowly crushing him ever since Gisbourne's beating, sobbed loudly, burying his face in his legs again.

  “My mother and father never forgave me for not saving Simon,” he whispered, wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands. “I was only thirteen and he was a grown man but Simon had been their favourite. I could play gittern but I couldn't sing in harmony with the rest of them very well whereas he could do it all. I think my ma wished it had been me that had died... I ended up heading off on my own. Tried to live lawfully but, you know how it is.”

  The old man slapped something crawling up his calf, feeling it crunch under his palm. He knew Allan's tale was done and wondered what to say after such a depressing story. Finally he cleared his throat and asked the only question he could think of.

  “We're going to die here aren't we?”

  “Aye,” Allan laughed through his tears. “I believe we are.”

  * * *

  The friar wasn't a skilled rider, that much was obvious as the two outlaws chased after him. Yet neither were they, and it was hard going as they urged their tired mounts on through the torrential rain, desperately hoping they'd catch Brother Walter before he reached the safety of Chesterfield, a market town of a fair size with, undoubtedly, a large tithing to enforce the law...

  The sun, already well hidden by the dark grey thunder-heads, had now begun to set and the countryside was a blur of lengthening shadows as the riders neared the town.

  “We won't catch him in time,” Little John roared over the drumming of hooves and rain.

  Robin could see John was right, but he kept his head down, close to his palfrey's neck, and willed the beast onwards, cursing his lack of riding e
xperience. He had his longbow and half-a-dozen arrows tucked into his belt but knew he'd fall off the galloping horse if he tried to use them. They couldn't let the Franciscan escape though – whatever was in the sheriff's letter was vitally important. They had to take it from the fleeing clergyman.

  Not only that, the wolf's head despaired as he thought of young Hubert, lying dead in the grass, his throat slit like an animal sacrificed to some crazed pagan god. He'd be blamed for it, Robin knew. When tales were told of this day, the minstrels would assume he, the notorious outlaw Robin Hood, had killed the novice.

  After all, who would believe the pious friar had torn the young boy's throat open accidentally?

  Sometimes a dark reputation was a handy thing to have, but the idea of people seeing him as a murderer of the friendly young novice made Robin seethe and he kicked his heels into his mount's side, willing the big animal onwards.

  “We don't know the people in that town,” John shouted, waving a big hand forward. “We're not going to catch the little prick in time, and he'll have the law on us once he blurts out his story. We should turn back now.”

  “No!” Robin replied, his voice whipped away by the wind that tore at them as they flew along the road. “Not until he enters the town. I won't give up.”

  They continued, gaining on the friar who would occasionally turn in his saddle to look back at them, his face an angry mask as he lashed his feet into his own mount's heaving, steaming, sides, but he was almost there. Almost at the safety of Chesterfield.

  The town lay beyond a swollen river and Brother Walter laughed wildly as he spotted the bridge that would take him to safety. Then his joy turned to dismay as the pounding hooves of his mount carried him towards the stone structure and he cried out a most unholy curse.

  The bridge had collapsed.

  The horse raced on towards the damaged structure, the friar unable to decide what he should do. To stop meant certain death at the hands of the pursuing outlaws. Yet the river looked much too wide for his horse to jump across, even if he knew how to make the palfrey perform the feat.

  “Christ protect me,” he murmured, looking skyward as he kicked his heels in again and gritted his teeth in terror, knowing he had to make it to the other side of the swollen river if he was to survive.

  His horse had better sense than Brother Walter though. It dug its shod hooves into the slippery wet ground and slowed to a sharp stop, so abruptly that the Franciscan was thrown forward to land face first in the grass at the edge of the raging water as his pursuers charged up behind him with triumphant howls.

  “Where's the letter?” Robin shouted, dropping to the ground and running over to grasp the stunned churchman by the throat. “Give it to me or, so help me God, I'll strip you naked and search your clothes for it.”

  The friar knew there was no point defying the furious wolf's head now. He pulled the sheriff's letter from its hiding place inside his grey habit, handing it over shakily, his eyes wide with fear.

  “You know you killed Hubert?” Robin demanded, shaking the friar viciously. “He's lying dead, face-down in the dirt a mile back along the road. Your knife opened his neck, you evil sack of shit.”

  The clergyman, already trembling from fear, and the damp that the rains had brought, shook his head in disbelief. He was a moaning, cranky old bastard, he knew that himself, but he was no murderer. He was a man of god, a friar, there was no way he'd ever take the life of another human, even that irritating young novice he'd been saddled with.

  “You're lying,” he shouted, almost hysterically, the rain running down his face and mingling with the tears of terror that spilled from his red-rimmed eyes. “You killed young Hubert, and now seek to lay the blame on me. As if anyone will believe that, you murdering wolf's head.”

  Robin punched the friar hard in the face, sending the man flying as he broke de Faucumberg's seal and tore open the letter.

  Little John dismounted and grabbed Walter by the belt as he tried to scrabble away, sobbing, into the undergrowth by the river's bank. Robin was engrossed in the letter.

  The young man had been taught how to read a little by Friar Tuck, but it took him a long time to make any sense of the sheriff's words, and Walter struggled against the giant's implacable hold as the wolf's head read and re-read the parchment in disbelief.

  “Well?” John demanded, shaking water from his hair like a great, sodden hound. “What does it say?”

  Robin looked up at him with a small smile. “We need to go to London to see the king,” he replied. “If it says what I think it does, he has to read this.”

  John grunted and shook the friar again. “What about him?”

  “If we let him go he'll give us away –”

  “I won't! I swear in the name of God and all his angels. I won't!”

  Robin shook his head sadly, thinking of the Hubert – a mere child – lying dead by the roadside and fixed Brother Walter with a hard stare.

  “Take his clothes and valuables so no-one will know who he is. Then throw him in the river.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Although Robin couldn't read all that well, especially the Latin that the sheriff's letter to the king was written in, he was able to make out a few words; enough to make him think the document could be incredibly important to him and his friends.

  After they'd stripped the friar of his robe, brass pectoral cross and the coin purse de Faucumberg had given him, Little John had thrown the screaming man into the raging torrent of the River Rother. “If you're so close to our Lord he'll fish you out, or send one of his saints to do it,” the giant roared as the skinny white figure was carried away by the swiftly moving waters. “Somehow,” he growled to himself as the figure, and its cries of terror, receded into the distance, “I doubt God will be much interested in you.”

  They made their way back to young Hubert's pitiful corpse and, with heavy hearts, stripped him too of his clothes and valuables before carrying his body back to the river and tossing him into the churning waters. They watched in silence, heads bowed in prayer, as the boy's pale, lifeless cadaver was washed away.

  “We'll stop at the next town,” Robin said, climbing back onto his horse which looked fed-up as the rain streamed down its long face. “Dry out, get some food and, maybe, buy ourselves Franciscan friar's outfits since these ones are too small...”

  John mounted his own palfrey, throwing his leader a look of disbelief. “You think the two of us will pass for friars? We're much bigger than any of the pious bastards I've ever seen. No-one will believe it.”

  Robin shrugged, kicking his mount into an easy canter back onto the road south. “A lot of old soldiers – sick of the death and killing and looking to atone for the things they've done in their lives – become monks or friars. Just because we haven't seen anyone as big as us doesn't mean much. Neither of us is very well-travelled.”

  John shook his great head like a hound, rain spraying off him. “Maybe,” he conceded. “Perhaps Will or Tuck could tell us more if they were here.”

  They made good time, only stopping for a short while to burn the incriminating Francsican cassocks, and reached Chesterfield by early evening. The rain had stopped and the spring sun had even made an appearance, drying the worst of the damp from their clothes although it was sinking into the horizon as they rode past the lone gate-guard and into the town.

  “No riding in the streets,” the guard, a middle-aged man with a head cleanly shaven, shouted at them, nodding in satisfaction as the two men dismounted with apologetic waves.

  “We seek an inn,” Robin said to the man.

  “Mercenaries are you?”

  The outlaw nodded, noting the older man's look of appraisal. “Aye, on our way south to seek work for one of the lords in the big city.”

  “Used to be a sell-sword myself, in my younger days,” the guard replied. “Before I met my wife...” He shook his head with a rueful smile. “But you lads don't want to hear about my troubles, you look like you could do with a fe
w ales and a warm fire.” He pointed along the street to the west of the town. “Follow the road there, not far along it you'll find the Hermit's Arms. Stupid name, I know, but the landlord's wife brews a fine ale and there's a stable for your mounts.”

  The outlaws waved their gratitude and Robin tossed the man a silver coin for his trouble which the guard caught and bit into before grinning and turning back to watch the gate.

  The Hermit's Arms proved to be a goodly-sized establishment with two stories and, as the guard had promised, a well-appointed stable where they left their palfreys in the care of a young lad no more than ten years old. Another small coin was enough for the boy to promise he'd take special care of the horses as Robin followed John into the inviting common room of the inn.

  A serving girl warmed a couple of ales for them using the pokers that sat by the fire for the purpose, took payment for a room and promised to bring them some of the stew they could smell cooking.

  The pair then spent an enjoyable night in the tavern. It was hard to believe, but Robin realised this was the first extended period of time the two friends had ever really shared on their own together.

  In the past two years they had often fished by the River Calder, sat by the camp-fire sharing stories and robbed rich merchants in each other's company but there had always been one or more of the other outlaw gang somewhere nearby, and the threat of capture or death at the hands of the law hanging over them.

  They felt safe here in the inn though.

  The ale was indeed good, the fire cosy and bright, and the companions enjoyed a fine evening before making their way to the room they'd paid for. Once there they collapsed, exhausted, on the crude but comfortable beds and forgot about their troubles for a time.

  In the morning, they downed some more of the landlord's ale to take the edge off their hangovers and left, with a wave to the man and his wife, who furnished them with bread and hard-boiled eggs for their breakfast.

  The inn-keeper had pointed them in the direction of the nearest tailor with a puzzled look on his face, but he knew better than to ask questions of guests. Sometimes it was safer not to know certain things...