Rise of the Wolf (The Forest Lord Book 3)

by Steven A McKay

  “Make sure you and your townsfolk heed my words,” Sir Guy said to Henry who pulled Matilda in close beside him defensively although the soldiers were turning to leave, Matt Groves still glaring balefully at the fletcher. “No more will the people of Yorkshire harbour outlaws. I will bring the king's justice to Hood; in the name of God I swear it.”

  With that, Gisbourne walked back along the street, his men trailing at his back like a pack of faithful hunting dogs. The fletcher and his daughter watched him go, fear making an icy pit in their guts.

  “What are we going to do?” Matilda whispered.

  But Henry had no answer for her.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Fire!”

  The cries rang out in the cool night air and, as the monks blearily hauled themselves out of bed and understood what was being said, panic quickly set in.

  It hadn't been Tuck's preferred way to get Prior de Monte Martini out of his bedchamber; he'd tried simply climbing up some handily placed ivy to his superior's window first, but the accursed plant had torn itself free from the wall under Tuck's weight and he'd found himself on his backside with a none-too-Christian oath on his lips.

  So, unknowingly echoing Sir Guy of Gisbourne's arson back in Wakefield, Tuck had asked Osferth to go and set alight to one of the small wooden outbuildings within the grounds. It was far enough away that the friars would be able to douse the conflagration before it spread and became truly dangerous, while being just close enough to the main priory building that the sight of the flames licking skyward would be sure to cause havoc, if only for a short time, until the water buckets could be fetched and do their job.

  Tuck stood concealed in the shadows outside the prior's private chamber, listening to the muffled shouts from outside. They were punctuated now by crashing sounds, as of timbers collapsing and the burly former outlaw shook his head irritably. Clearly Osferth had set a larger fire than he'd been asked. Tuck should have guessed as much when he'd seen the gleam in the younger man's eyes as he'd crept off to gather a tinderbox and some kindling.

  The man's a pyromaniac, Tuck thought just as footsteps came hurrying along the high-ceilinged corridor and he pressed himself further back against the wall so the flickering orange glow coming through the few windows wouldn't reveal his hiding place.

  It was Ralph, the prior's bottler, who ran to the sturdy door and pounded his fist on it. “Wake up, father! There's a fire! Fire!”

  Still, there was no sound of movement from within the chamber and Ralph began to hammer on the door again, stepping back hastily when it was pulled open and the angry red face of de Monte Martini loomed into the dimly lit hallway.

  “Yes, yes, I heard you. St. Peter himself must have heard you at the gates of Heaven, by God. Let me gather –”

  “No time, father!” The bottler waved his hands in the air and practically hopped on one foot, causing Tuck to stifle a laugh in his hiding place. “Your safety is more important than any worldly possessions. Come, we must go now – everyone else is outside helping fight the blaze.”

  De Monte Martini stared at the nervously flapping man and shook his head in disgust before sighing heavily and shrugging his shoulders. He stepped into the hall and used a key to lock the big door then allowed himself to be led away to the nearest safe exit.

  As soon as the pair turned the first corner Tuck took a deep breath and charged at the door which gave way much easier than he'd expected it to and he stumbled to a halt, breathing heavily, his eyes taking in the surroundings, searching for the little reliquary that he'd come to know so well.

  The prior, of course, didn't clean his own chambers. Lower brothers of the order changed de Monte Martini's bedclothes, dusted his furniture, swept the floor and performed all the other menial tasks to keep the room in good order. The prior had been careful never to allow Tuck into the chamber, not trusting the former outlaw within his own, personal, quarters, but Osferth had sometimes carried out the cleaning chores in the large room.

  “It's a fancy place,” he'd told Tuck earlier that evening. “There's expensive rugs on the floors, fine tapestries depicting scenes from Christ's life on the walls, and on his chests of drawers he displays all the really fine relics he's collected over the years. That one you're looking for will be there, I'm sure, although I've not been in there since you came back so can't say for sure.”

  Tuck had been disgusted to learn the prior hoarded religious artefacts to display in his own chamber, for his own private delight. Now, as the friar stood looking around the room his disgust turned to anger.

  There was a fortune in holy trinkets dotted about the place, some with fine engraved gold information plates underneath them that were probably valuable enough to be called treasures in their own right.

  A towel Christ had used to dry his face; a fine silver cup that had apparently belonged to St Stephen; a glass vial of the Virgin Mary's breast milk; a little jar with some of the clay Adam had been fashioned from; thorns from the crown the Romans had forced onto the Lord's head before he made his final journey to Golgotha...

  It was obscene. These spiritual marvels should be available for all to venerate. Who knew how many sick people could be cured by the touch of one or other of these? Yet here they sat, hidden from the world, so de Monte Martini could bask in their glory himself. It was, truly, a despicable sin.

  Finally, his roving eyes came to rest on the one particular relic he sought and he hastily grabbed it, shoving the artifact into the pocket sewn inside his grey cassock before turning to leave.

  And stopping dead in his tracks.

  Prior John de Monte Martini stood, mouth open in shock, glaring at him murderously. “I knew you were wicked,” he hissed. “I should have handed you over to the law when you came crawling back here. You must have been right at home with those filthy outlaws, you devil.”

  Tuck had no idea what to do. If it had been anyone else, he'd have simply knocked them out of his path but... despite the fact de Monte Martini was hardly a beacon of piety, the man was, still, a prior and, in theory, much closer to God than Tuck.

  The prior's eyes flicked behind Tuck and noticed the empty space where the ornate reliquary should be. “Ah, so that's it,” he smirked triumphantly. “We can add the sin of theft to your long list of crimes.”

  As the man opened his mouth to shout for help Tuck thought of the hoarded relics and the prior's all-encompassing greed. He thought of the brothels de Monte Martini owned. And he thought of Robin Hood and the rest of his friends whose location the prior's own messenger would, any day now, hand over to the one-eyed bounty hunter known as The Raven.

  Before any sound could escape his superior's lips, Tuck balled a meaty fist and punched him on the nose, knocking him backwards into the door-frame which he slid down, to sit on the floor clutching his bloodied face. It had been a heavy blow, with many years of pent-up frustration behind it, and the prior sat, too dazed to move or even say anything. It wasn't the first time he'd suffered a broken nose: that young whoreson Hood had done the same thing to him two years earlier, an action that had, unbeknown to any of them at the time, set all these events in motion.

  Unlike Robin though, Tuck had no desire to continue the assault. Indeed, he'd shocked himself by lashing out at de Monte Martini, and he knew now there was no turning back from the path he'd set himself upon. The law would be after him, the prior would see to that, and he'd hang like Sir Richard-at-Lee had – another enemy of de Monte Martini – the previous summer.

  With a final glance at the dazed prior Tuck hurried from the room, picked up his quarterstaff and small pack that he'd left in the shadows and left Lewes Priory for the last time.

  * * *

  Sixty miles north of Lewes where Tuck and his new travelling companion, Osferth, were hastily making their escape from the outraged Prior de Monte Martini, Robin and Little John had just left London. They retrieved their concealed weapons from the thick foliage outside the city then headed back onto the road to Nottingham with t
he invaluable letter from the king to Sheriff de Faucumberg.

  “He seemed a good lad,” John said, and had to repeat himself when his words were lost behind their cantering horses as the pair tried to get home as quickly as possible.

  “Who?” Robin shouted, looking over in puzzlement before turning his eyes back to the road ahead, the muscles in his thighs burning already as he gripped his palfrey too tightly for fear of falling off. He would never be much of a horseman he thought, trying to relax a little.

  “The king! He seemed like a nice enough sort. I'd like to share a few ales with him, I bet he'd be a fine drinking companion.”

  Robin grinned at his friend's idea, imagining Edward spending a night by their campfire in Barnsdale with the grumbling Will Scarlet and the Hospitaller sergeant, Stephen, not to mention Allan-a-Dale and his ribald songs.

  He pulled his horse's bridle gently to the side to slow it without hurting its mouth then let the beast continue at a walk which was much less painful on the young man's inner thighs. John noticed Robin's change of pace and checked his own mount, taking up position beside his friend.

  “D'you think Allan's all right?”

  John puffed up his cheeks and exhaled softly, brow furrowed. “No idea. You know better than me what it's like in Nottingham's dungeon. The sheriff didn't hang him straight away though, so hopefully that's a good sign.”

  Robin didn't answer. It wasn't the sheriff he was worried about, it was Sir Guy of Gisbourne...

  “Imagine if he'd not been caught and had actually won that silver arrow,” John said, watching his leader's sombre introspection. “How much do you think it's worth?”

  Robin glanced across at the big man and smiled. “God knows – enough to buy us all pardons though. I suspect that's why Allan went into the city on that fool's errand in the first place. We spoke about it the night before he and Gareth left.” He stopped short of blaming himself out loud for the whole mess, knowing John would just get irritated with him. Still, if he hadn't suggested the idea...

  “Cheer up,” John growled. “God works in mysterious ways, as Tuck was always telling us. We might still find the money to bribe some rich gentleman. After all, who would have believed a couple of outlaws would see and do everything that we have?”

  It had been a strange time for the young outlaw leader. He'd been expecting to follow in his father's footsteps as a forester until that fateful Mayday in 1321 when his world had been turned arse-over-elbow and he'd found himself, lonely and frightened, in the forest with only a rudimentary knowledge of how to use his da's old sword and the longbow he'd spent years mastering but had never used in anger.

  Now, here he was, on his way back from the most incredible city he'd ever seen or ever would see, after meeting the king himself!

  John was right too – Edward did seem like a good sort. A man to drink with, indeed. Perhaps that was the trouble. Rather than spending evenings in village taverns with individual commoners like blacksmiths, as he notoriously had in Uxbridge, the monarch might have been better trying to do more for that whole underclass in general over the years by lowering taxes and holding back the marauding Scots as his father had.

  “If he ever comes into our forest,” Robin said, grinning, “we'll... invite him to dinner, as we did with Sir Richard.”

  The grin slowly left his face as he remembered their fallen comrade. The big Hospitaller knight had been a good friend to the outlaws but, like so many others in his life – not least his childhood friend Much – was now dead and, hopefully, buried, although it was probably more likely the knight's body had been left to rot on the gallows that stood so threateningly by the road outside Nottingham's walls.

  Robin pictured his son, Arthur, and his spirits rose again. People lived and they died, it was the way of things. All he could do was continue to do his best for those who depended on him – not only his little son, but the other outlaws who looked to him for leadership as they struggled just to survive and stay one step ahead of Sir Guy of Gisbourne and the foresters that scoured Barnsdale for poachers and rebels and other criminals like them.

  He kicked his heels into his mount and drove it ahead of John's horse, gritting his teeth in determination. Aye, he'd make sure they all stayed out of Gisbourne's grasp and he would, somehow, see all his friends pardoned: free men.

  But first, they had to get Allan-a-Dale out of Nottingham's jail, and, despite their letter from the king, it wasn't going to be easy...

  * * *

  “What's that you've got there, Tuck? Is that a sword?” The youth hooted derisively and Marjorie felt her face flush in embarrassment as her tormentor's companions giggled along with their leader.

  She'd been lost in thought as she made her way to another all-too-rare sparring session with Matilda. Sir Guy of Gisbourne's recent visit to Wakefield and his subsequent burning of Patrick Prudhomme's house had outraged the girl. All the people of the village just stood by while the so-called Raven came along, threatened them all, then set alight to their headman's own home. If she'd been strong enough she'd have stood up to the crooked lawmen she thought, and it had given her even more desire to build her strength and skills.

  She hadn't noticed the three younger girls loitering near the outskirts of the village until one of them had shouted at her.

  Marjorie's practice sword had been safely tucked inside her skirts as she walked through the village but, at the worst moment, had worked itself free of its restraint and fallen between her legs to land on the ground with a small thump.

  Of course, Helen, one of the village bullies, had been standing with her companions just as Marjorie passed and she'd spotted the training weapon when it dropped onto the sun-baked road.

  Helen's mother had died three years earlier, leaving her with only her labourer father to take care of her. He was a decent man who did his best for his daughter but his work meant he was away from home for long hours every day and Helen had started to become something of a problem child despite the fact that, at 13, she was almost an adult and was expected to look after the household now that her mother was gone.

  Marjorie ignored the shouts from the girls who, although they were all four or five years younger than her, were somewhat bigger, physically. She bent to retrieve the dropped practice sword, trying to shove it back inside her clothing before anyone else saw it then continued on her way towards the clearing in the woods where Matilda waited to start their training session.

  “Hey, Tuck, I'm talking to you, you fat bastard!”

  Marjorie gritted her teeth at Helen's sarcastic taunt, clenching her fists and wishing with all her heart she had her big brother's muscular frame. But she was used to people commenting on her diminutive stature so she walked on, trying to remain calm as Matilda had taught her.

  It was no good; she heard the sound of running footsteps behind her and turned to face them, right hand clasping the wooden practice sword that she still held concealed within her woollen tunic.

  “Fuck off, you little arseholes,” she growled, drawing her eyebrows down in the fiercest glare she could manage. “I'm busy.”

  Her pursuers stopped short at that, looking at each other in disbelief before bursting into laughter.

  “'Little'?” Helen demanded. “Who are you calling 'little', Tuck? We're all bigger than you, you skinny bastard.” The girl moved forward to take up a position directly in front of Marjorie who stood her ground despite being outnumbered. “Or maybe you were comparing us to 'Little' John?” She laughed and looked at her two friends. “Aye, that would make sense. I'm the giant wolf's head and you're the big, fat fucking priest that's good for nothing but eating and praying. Fatty.” The girl poked her finger maliciously towards Marjorie's flat belly as she ground out the final insult.

  A couple of months earlier Robin's sister would have felt the tip of that finger pressing against her stomach painfully, humiliatingly, and she'd have just accepted it. The big always bested the small and weak after all – it was the way of the world.<
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  But Marjorie had been practising with the wooden sword for weeks now. She'd run for miles to build up her stamina, and she'd forced more food down her neck than she'd eaten the entire year before so, although she was still thin, her muscles had become a little bigger and more defined than they'd ever been and she knew how to take a blow thanks to the sparring with her sister-in-law Matilda.

  “Fuck off, Helen, you craven bastard. And don't call me 'Tuck'. You look more like him than I do.”

  There was a moment of shocked silence then Helen's two friends burst into near-hysterical laughter. No-one ever spoke back to their leader like that. This promised to be a hugely entertaining morning.

  Marjorie expected to be called more names. Expected the verbal onslaught to grow to a crescendo before anyone got angry enough to throw a punch, but she was wrong.

  Helen's hand, balled into a fist like any experienced soldier's, came towards her face like a battering ram and Marjorie was only just able to avoid what would have been a thunderous and no-doubt incapacitating punch.

  Without even thinking, Robin's sister lifted her right knee up to her waist and, leaning back for more leverage, hammered her foot into Helen's ribs, sending the bigger, older girl flying into the grass where she lay clutching her side.

  Marjorie wasn't finished yet, though – her blood was up and she knew she had to teach her tormentors a lesson or they'd never stop hassling her.

  She turned to face the biggest of the remaining two girls – a tall lass with near-flawless skin and high cheekbones – who stood open mouthed, gazing at the downed Helen.

  “You want some too?”

  The girls backed away although their pride made sure they looked angry rather than frightened by the show of naked aggression and their leader's defeat. The fact they moved away was enough to bolster Marjorie's confidence though, and she raised her left fist threateningly before remembering she had the practice sword tucked inside her belt under her dress.