Rise of the Wolf (The Forest Lord Book 3)

by Steven A McKay

  “Aye, always,” John agreed, lowering his voice as they approached the gates. “Most of the time they're crazy and suicidal though. I hope this time you have something a bit better because if the king doesn't believe our story, there'll be no escape.”

  The huge, cold, grey walls loomed high above them, staggering them with their sheer size and Robin felt a lump of bile forming in his throat. He coughed to try and clear it but it stuck, lodged there and he wished they'd stopped at a tavern for a few ales before coming here. At least if he was drunk he wouldn't feel so frightened.

  But it was too late for that. They'd reached the great wooden gates to the palace and there was no going back.

  The guard captain looked them up and down, taking in their great size and the grey habits they wore with a look of interest on his face before nodding respectfully.

  “State your business with the king, brother friars.”

  Robin took a deep breath, not even noticing the uncomfortable phlegm had disappeared as an icy calm came over him and he began to tell the guard their tale.

  * * *

  “Bugger this, and bugger the prior.”

  Tuck smiled at Brother Osferth, his companion for the morning – again – and nodded sad agreement, glad that the fellow was feeling more talkative today. “Aye, God forgive me, but I'm beginning to wish I'd never come back here.” He lifted another armful of logs which Osferth was splitting with an old axe and stacked them with the rest of the pile they'd been working on since dawn.

  While the rest of the monks had been making their way to the early morning service of Lauds Prior de Monte Martini's dean, Henry, had waved Tuck and Osferth aside and told them the prior needed firewood chopped as there were important visitors coming from London that day. It was obviously nonsense; Tuck had seen the vast stores of fuel that were piled up by the priory's east wall, so even if there were visitors they didn't need any more wood for the hearth in the chapter-house but he hadn't bothered arguing with the dean.

  Osferth, on the other hand, complained loudly and angrily about missing his morning devotions. The dean simply shrugged and told them it was the prior's orders and they'd better get on with it if they didn't want to miss their dinner as well.

  A sharp crack filled the air as the younger monk hefted the axe again before wiping the sheen of sweat from his brow and sitting down on the pile of uncut logs with a heavy, angry sigh.

  Osferth was in his mid-twenties, although he looked much younger, and had an open, pleasant face which fitted his personality perfectly. The other monks in Lewes Priory liked the man, but he had a problem taking orders and it had led de Monte Martini to mark him down as a troublemaker.

  “God works in mysterious ways,” he replied to Tuck, who grunted non-committally. “We all heard about you joining those outlaws up north. Never thought I'd see you here again but... God must have led you back here for a purpose.”

  Tuck allowed himself to slump down on the grass beside Osferth, a hacking cough bursting from his lips as he did so. “What purpose?” he growled. “To cut logs? To shovel filth from the latrines? To listen to the babbling of novices?” He coughed again, bending over until his head was almost on the ground before wiping his mouth and glaring up at his companion. “To eat even less than I did as a wolf's head in the snow shrouded forests of Yorkshire? Is that my purpose?” He shook his tonsured head irritably. “God be praised then, I've found my true calling.”

  Osferth smiled before standing up and lifting the blunt axe again. “Someone should really sharpen this bloody thing,” he muttered before he placed another piece of timber on the block and brought the weapon down on it, splitting it neatly in two. “At least you're not with the outlaws any more. Once the sheriff knows where they are he'll make short work of them. This might be a harder work than we'd like but it's better than being killed.”

  Tuck hauled himself to his feet with a grunt, clutching at the sharp pain in his chest where Sir Guy of Gisbourne's crossbow bolt had almost ended his life the previous summer. “The sheriff's been after Robin and the lads for a long time now – years!” He smiled. “They know how to stay one step ahead of de Faucumberg and his men.”

  Osferth continued chopping wood in a mechanical fashion, occasionally wiping his brow or blowing a curse from dry lips. “Aye, maybe,” he finally agreed. “But the prior's information will let the lawmen finally catch up with Hood.”

  Tuck's head spun round and he almost dropped the pile of wood he was placing neatly amongst the rest of the pile. “What information?”

  The axeman's eyes flicked up at the note of surprise in Tuck's voice and he held the implement still for a moment. “You know – the location of Hood's camp.”

  Tuck dropped the firewood onto the ground and moved across to stand before Osferth, his eyes blazing. “What are you talking about?” he demanded. “De Monte Martini doesn't know where they are. How could he?”

  Osferth stepped back, unnerved by the threat of violence that he saw reflected in Tuck's normally jovial features. “I don't know how he found out the location of their camp, but he did. He sent one of the brothers north to Nottingham just the other day, to tell the sheriff. Did you not know?”

  Tuck sagged back onto the stone wall that surrounded the priory, his mind whirling. He hadn't heard anything about this, probably because he'd been made to take his meals with the novices and the other friars had been warned against talking to him by the prior.

  “Hood and his men are probably all dead by now,” Osferth grunted, swinging the axe to split another log. “I'm sorry,” he said, as he placed another, fresh piece of wood onto the block and stepped back to half that one too. “I know you were close to some of them.”

  Tuck suddenly lunged forward and grabbed the Benedictine's right arm in a grip that shocked the younger man with its strength. “When? When did the messenger leave for Nottingham?”

  The axeman shook his head. “I don't remember. A day or two ago I think. Brother Cedric it was. One of the –”

  “– Younger men.” Tuck finished for him. “Aye, I know who Cedric is.”

  The big friar leant against the wall and closed his eyes, his mind racing. What was he to do? His friends might be dead already. And yet... What was his life now? To be used and abused by de Monte Martini, a greedy, grasping man not worthy of the title of prior? Surely this wasn't God's plan for him.

  No, it was a sign!

  Tuck saw it clearly now. He'd known as soon as he'd set eyes on the long-lost holy relic back in Yorkshire with the outlaws that it had been given to him for a reason. He'd been stoic in the face of the prior's harsh treatment but he'd been unable to fathom the divine purpose in it all. Why would God send him back here simply to be treated like a serf?

  Now it was clear. He'd been brought here to save Robin and his friends, not that damned prior.

  “Brother Cedric only has a couple of days start,” he said, turning to meet Osferth's gaze. “I can still reach Nottingham before him.” He pushed himself off the wall and, firewood forgotten, hurried past his surprised companion, a fiery gleam lighting his eyes from within. He knew what his purpose was now, and chopping firewood or shovelling shit was not part of it.

  “Wait. Wait!”

  Tuck waved a hand irritably as Osferth chased after him.

  “Stop, Robert!” The younger man shouted behind him. “Let me come with you.”

  That halted Tuck, although only for a moment. “You can't come with me,” he retorted, shaking his head as he hurried back into the priory and along the gloomy corridor to his cell. “I'll be returning to a life as a wolf's head – an outlaw. A criminal that any man can cut down with church and state's blessing!”

  Osferth caught up to him and fell into step by his side, a boyish grin on his face.

  “So you say,” he laughed. “But I'm no outlaw; I can go where I like and I'm coming too. It has to be better than this.”

  Tuck hurried along the corridor shaking his head. Osferth seemed touched but this
was a step too far even for him. “You can't just leave your life here; what about your vows? Besides, the prior will send word to every Benedictine in the country about what we've done.”

  Osferth kept pace beside the older man for a moment then cocked an eyebrow at the older man in bemusement. “What we've done?”

  “Aye,” Tuck grinned. “That ungodly womaniser doesn't deserve to keep the relic I returned to him. With the Lord's grace I'm going to steal it and take it back to Brandesburton, where it belongs.”

  * * *

  Another tiresome day listening to men prattle on about minor matters that, to them, seemed like grand problems but ultimately left King Edward II bored and irritated and watching the shadows lengthen as the sun moved across the sky outside, wishing it would move faster so he could get out and see his friends.

  Sir Hugh Despenser the younger was his friend, and, as the king's chamberlain, had accompanied him on this trip to Westminster Palace. He was glad his closest friend and adviser was there; although they had put down the rebellion a year earlier, things had not been as peaceful as the king would have wished. The Scots had continued to be a problem and even Sir Andrew Harclay, who'd led Edward's forces so effectively against the Contrariants at the Battle of Boroughbridge, had taken it upon himself to treat with the Bruce. The king had ordered Harclay arrested and taken to London where he was executed for his treasonous actions. Thankfully, the Scots had, provisionally, agreed to a truce which had been thrashed out mostly by Sir Hugh himself and would hopefully sign it within the next few weeks.

  For the first time in his reign, King Edward could rule without the threat of war in the north hanging over him. But the defection of Harclay rankled badly and Edward felt a black depression come upon him every time he thought of his formerly loyal general.

  He was a lonely king, and he smiled at the younger Despenser, glad he was there with him. His wife, Queen Isabella, hated Sir Hugh, but Edward cared little for that – they hadn't shared the marital bed for months and had never been particularly close anyway, despite their four children. When the rebels had forced the king to exile Despenser two years earlier Edward had continued to support his friend financially and, as soon as possible, allowed Sir Hugh to return and reclaim his lands, titles, and position as his closest adviser.

  Like Piers Gaveston before him, the younger Despenser was loved by Edward but their friendship didn't sit well with the people of England. Damn them all to hell, a king needed someone that he could trust, why couldn't they accept that? It wasn't as if his confidante and adviser was incompetent – on the contrary, both Hugh and his father, also called Hugh, were capable and ambitious men who had proven their worth to the crown, even in the face of the murderous hostility of the rebel magnates.

  Still, there didn't seem to be much Sir Hugh could do about the seemingly endless line of irritating petitioners that waited outside the grand chamber. Edward would just need to get on with things until he and his friend could move on to more interesting pursuits.

  “You look in ill humour, sire,” Sir Hugh noted, a small smile playing on his thin lips.

  “Do you blame me? This is interminable.”

  “Well, I think you'll enjoy receiving at least a couple of your visitors today.” The chamberlain grinned and gestured at the line of petitioners who stood queueing to meet the king. Behind a small, balding man in ridiculously extravagant clothing stood two of the biggest friars the king had ever seen.

  “They bring word from Sir Henry de Faucumberg, Sheriff of Nottingham and Yorkshire.” Sir Hugh muttered.

  Edward watched the clergymen as the bald man was announced and approached the throne, his eyes taking in their impressive physiques which even the shapeless grey cassocks couldn't hide. Sir Hugh was right, these two promised to be much more interesting than the usual mumbling, nervous nobles he had to deal with. Like the little fop that knelt before him now.

  Edward sighed. He'd have to deal with this one before he could find out who the huge friars were. He forced what he hoped was a reassuring smile onto his handsome face and gestured at the supplicant before him. “Rise and state your case, my good man.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The audience room was astonishing. If Robin and John had been impressed by the architecture and sheer grandeur of the capital city before, they were left open-mouthed by the sight of the king's reception chamber.

  There was, of course, a high-backed throne, although it wasn't as large or as ornate as Robin expected. It looked rather comfortable in fact, and the wolf's head supposed it had to be, if the king was going to spend extended periods in it dealing with his courtiers.

  The walls were lavishly decorated with paintings and tapestries shot through with gold and silver which caught any light and shone beautifully. There were weapons – ceremonial of course although they would doubtless prove as deadly as any other if wielded in anger – displayed in stands in the corners of the room and even the table the king and his advisers sat behind looked as if it had been hewn from one great living piece of oak, with gargoyles and religious motifs carved delicately into the legs and corners.

  In short, the room was stunning.

  The two outlaws, hunched and hooded in their grey robes, waited in line behind those others who had come to petition the monarch. A wealthy merchant complaining about the activities of pirates in the waters off the coast of Cornwall; a bailiff from Derbyshire pleading for help with a gang of violent outlaws that were plaguing the area; a group of farmers from Lincolnshire demanding something be done about their lord who took too much grain from them in tax and a variety of others, all seeking the king's aid.

  Edward looked utterly bored by the whole thing, only occasionally sitting up in his finely carved chair to listen intently when someone's story caught his interest. For the most part he played with the cuffs of his embroidered sleeves and seemed on the point of falling fast asleep. His advisers at least seemed interested; one man with a neatly-trimmed beard sat at the king's right hand, smiling and raising his eyebrows in consternation whenever a petitioner appeared to be upset, but it was clear nothing of any real importance was happening at court that day.

  The petitioners took their turn to state their case and, depending on the outcome, passed Robin and John either grinning in triumph or muttering about the king's inattention. John fidgeted nervously as they waited their turn, but Robin stood stock still, taking in everything that was going on to make sure he knew how to address England's most powerful man.

  “Pull your hoods down, brothers,” a footman hissed in annoyance at the two would-be Franciscans as their time to address the throne approached. “You can't meet the king with your faces hidden.”

  Robin swivelled his head to meet Little John's wide eyes and the pair pulled back the cowls, revealing their tonsured heads. The footman that had reprimanded them took an involuntary step backwards, the sight of the young, hard faces giving the huge friars a somewhat sinister, threatening look. Had he been manning the gates when this pair had arrived he would have turned them away, but it was too late for that. The man in the line before them, a magistrate from Norwich seeking authority from Edward to seize the lands of a troublesome local baron, stated his case successfully and was waved away, smiling like a sailor in a whorehouse.

  It was time to meet the king.

  The footman stepped back, warily watching the two massive, grey robed, friars who approached the throne and knelt respectfully.

  “You are Franciscans?” The greybeard on the king's left asked politely, his eyes taking in the unusual sight before him as Robin and John nodded. “State your names, and your business here today.”

  “Brother Hubert –”

  “– and Brother Walter,” Robin broke in, finishing the introduction and rising at a gesture from the old adviser at the king's side. “From Gloucester Greyfriars.” He made the sign of the cross but kept his head bowed rather than meeting Edward's stare and fished inside the grey cassock to retrieve Sir Henry de Faucumberg's
letter. The competent, professional-looking soldiers behind the king moved forward, pole-arms raised threateningly as the tall young friar with his enormous archer's shoulders put a hand inside his robe, but Robin produced the rolled-up parchment with a small smile and the guards relaxed.

  A servant hurried forward to take the proffered letter and moved to kneel before the king, head down and hand outstretched. Edward, eyes still fixed on the two enormous clergymen before him took the rolled up parchment and finally looked down at it with a frown.

  “We bring word from Sir Henry de Faucumberg, sire,” Robin said, pleased to hear his voice ring out strong and true despite the nerves that gripped his insides. He could feel the sweat pooling uncomfortably under his armpits and he sensed Little John tensing beside him, ready to fight for his life should the king query the fact the letter's seal had been broken.

  “This,” Edward growled, looking up and meeting Robin's gaze, “is from the Sheriff of Nottingham and Yorkshire?”

  “Aye, lord king, it is. He tasked us with delivering it into your hands. I can only apologise – we encountered some... trouble, on the way here. A pair of craven outlaws tried to rob us. They broke the seal on the letter although, needless to say they couldn't even read.” He smiled slightly, confidently. “Brother Hubert and I managed to take back the letter and... chase them off.”

  The atmosphere in the hall had become strangely tense and Robin prayed silently that it was simply because he and John were much bigger than most other clergymen.

  King Edward placed the parchment on the table in front of him without unrolling it and walked around to stand before them.

  The outlaws tried to remain calm. This was new: the king hadn't moved out of his comfortable throne all day until now yet here he was, striding over to look into Little John's eyes.