“Come on then,” she growled, pulling the wooden weapon out and brandishing it menacingly. “Let's see how hard you are now.”
The pair glanced at each other then, without a word, ran off into the village, leaving their fallen comrade behind without a backward glance.
By now Helen had recovered and, grasping her side with an enraged expression on her round face, got to her feet and stared at Marjorie, eyes brimming with tears of rage and pain.
“You'll be sorry you did that. I'll get you for it you bitch, in God's name I will.”
Marjorie slapped the girl on the side of the leg with the sword. Not hard enough to do any real damage but with enough venom that Helen squealed in agony, grasping her stinging limb with both hands, the tears now spilling freely down her cheeks as Marjorie stepped forward and looked down on her, the rounded tip of the sword pointing at her face.
“No you won't. If you try to hassle me again, I'll break your leg with my sword. And if any of your little lackeys cause me any trouble I'll have a word with my brother and ask him to pay your da a visit. How d'you think your da would like that? If Robin and Little John and Will Scarlet were to turn up at his door?”
Helen remained silent but it was obvious Marjorie's words had hit home, hard. Everyone in the village knew what Little John had done the last time someone had messed with Robin Hood's family. The giant wolf's head had turned up and beat the hell out of Henry Woolemonger before impaling the man on the end of his sword. The outlaws weren't men to cross.
Helen's face twisted and she turned away to hide it, gasping an apology at the same time.
Marjorie felt like a giant – never in her whole life had such a sense of power coursed through her veins. It was incredible.
Without another word she straightened and walked off towards the trees and the clearing where Matilda waited to begin their sparring session. She listened warily as she went, just in case Helen's anger and humiliation drove her to seek retribution for her defeat but the girl never moved and, eventually, Marjorie pushed her way into the trees and, with a small sigh of relief, lost herself within the dense foliage.
Eventually, a broad grin spread across her gaunt face and she chuckled to herself. She'd never been in a real fight in her life before but, in the name of God, she'd enjoyed it. Enjoyed the great feeling of strength and power that had filled her as she'd glared down upon her beaten tormentor and seen the fear in the girl's moist eyes.
As she pushed the leaves and branches aside, though, the feeling of excitement left her and, strangely, was replaced by shame.
Helen had lost her mother not that long ago; it must have been difficult for the girl to lose a parent and, on top of that grief, to have all the household responsibilities thrown upon her young shoulders. Was it any wonder she sought to strike out? To take her rage at life's injustice out upon anyone that happened to walk past?
Marjorie shook her head and sighed again. She'd been right to defend herself but perhaps she'd gone too far and the fact she'd felt so alive when she'd hit the younger girl made her feel disgusted at herself.
Aye, it had been good to teach Helen a lesson and now, hopefully, she'd be left alone. But, in future, Marjorie would need to watch her temper or she'd end up in trouble, just as her older brother had when he'd attacked that prior two years ago.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Osferth proved to be an entertaining travel companion. Full of nervous energy and always ready to burst into one of his favourite hymns, Tuck was glad to have him along on his return to Yorkshire. For some reason the man didn't seem to care that he'd left his life – and vows – behind in Lewes.
After he'd punched de Monte Martini Tuck had made his way out of the priory and met up with the waiting Osferth not far from the walls. When the friar had returned to Lewes he'd ostensibly turned over any valuables he carried to the priory's treasurer, but the wily former wrestler had hidden the gold and silver he'd earned while part of Robin Hood's gang. It was a lot of money and he had no intention of relinquishing it into the fat, grasping hands of the prior who would, doubtless, spend it on finery to adorn his already treasure laden private chamber.
They used some of the small coins in Cooksbridge to buy a pair of horses and pushed them close to their limits now. Not only did they have to escape any pursuers the prior might send after them, but Tuck also prayed they'd be in time to warn Robin and the rest of his friends that their location had been found out and passed to Sir Guy of Gisbourne. The man that sold them the mounts had asked where they were going and eyed their cassocks with interest but Tuck had batted the questions aside, only telling the merchant they were headed north on church business.
Osferth had a thatch of straw-coloured hair and was as skinny as one of the rakes they used in the priory to gather fallen autumn leaves. The man could probably have run all the way to Wakefield with a grin on his slightly simple-looking face, Tuck thought, but he himself had found it hard even just to match Osferth's pace on the way to Cooksbridge.
Tuck's days of wandering around the countryside were done. He wondered how he'd survive now that he was a wolf's head again, for surely Prior de Monte Martini would have the law after his blood harder than ever. It was a worry...
But it was a worry for another day – right now they had to make their way north as quickly as possible and warn Robin if it wasn't already too late.
That morning, as the sun was high in the sky and the morning haze had burned away the mist leaving the country for miles around visible they passed what looked like a merchant riding on his wagon full of goods accompanied by a pair of grizzled guards on foot at the side and Osferth, grinning and apparently full of the joy of God's gift of life, began to sing, loudly and surprisingly melodiously, “All Creatures of our God and King”. The hymn, incongruous in such a setting, brought only bemused looks from the mercenaries who fingered their sword hilts, wondering if the crazed Benedictine monk might prove to be a threat.
“Hush, Osferth,” Tuck growled once they'd left the suspicious travellers behind. “You're going to leave a trail for our pursuers to follow as if we'd left arrows scratched into the road behind us. We're trying to be as invisible as possible and your loud singing only serves to draw attention to us.”
“Sorry.” Osferth smiled sheepishly. He had a powerful voice that belied his spare frame and he enjoyed nothing more than filling his lungs and belting out his love of God's creation. “I'll try to be invisible – like a shadow in the dark.” He pulled the hood on his cassock over his thatch of straw-coloured hair and Tuck shook his head ruefully.
Osferth didn't seem to be quite 'all there', and Tuck wondered how the man would survive on his own in the world, but at least their flight was proving to be a memorable one.
“What's your story?” the portly friar asked, turning to look at his companion. “How did you become a Benedictine?”
Osferth shrugged and smiled but remained silent as they rode on.
He was a good Benedictine. In fact, in the eyes of his superiors he was almost the perfect monk, being docile, slightly slow and ready to believe whatever he was told without asking awkward questions. Despite the fact he occasionally lit fires and acted like a petulant child he was much less trouble than some of the more intelligent monks who continually demanded answers and fomented trouble amongst their brothers. The odd room pile of junk being found in flames was much less hassle than tough questions about the council of Nicea.
Life as a Benedictine suited Osferth well, although he hadn't become a monk by choice. His father had been a magistrate from Brighton, a minor noble with a considerable fortune and large estates to his name. He'd become caught up in a lawsuit between two of Sussex's most notorious – and wealthy – smugglers though, and the losing party had taken his revenge on Osferth's father, killing him and appropriating his entire estate, apparently by legal means.
Osferth had only been a youngster at the time and the course of his life had changed drastically as a result of his father's murder.
His mother, already a fragile, weak woman, had left, disappearing one night never to be seen by the confused boy ever again. His only surviving kin, an uncle, had been unwilling and financially unable to take Osferth in so he'd been sent to the priory in nearby Lewes to become a novice.
The lad might have been the son of a well-liked and successful magistrate but he hadn't inherited any of his father's razor-sharp intellect or charisma so, although he had no interest in religion he'd gone along with his uncle's wishes and joined the Benedictines.
He knew he wasn't smart anyway; knew he couldn't have survived very well on his own, so he'd been relieved when Prior de Monte Martini had accepted him into their brotherhood. He'd been grateful ever since, even if he was poorly treated as a result of his slowness.
At least he had a roof over his head and decent food in his belly; more than his dead father had for sure.
Sometimes he heard a little voice inside telling him to do things but he'd never spoken to anyone about it. God was talking directly to him, just as He had done with Moses on Mount Sinai, or Elijah, who had heard the voice of God and been taken up into the sky by His mighty whirlwind. One day Osferth knew he too would be taken up to Heaven by God in such a fashion.
The fires the voices told him to start always created chaos and consternation within the priory. Once he'd burnt down much of the east wing with many of his brothers lucky to escape the smoke and flames but he was only doing God's work. The monks had feasted on beer and fish that day and needed to be reminded of the fragility of their own existence, not to mention God's dominion over their gluttonous, fat bodies.
Osferth's fire had cleansed the priory and, he was sure, had shown his brothers the error of their ways. They'd not feasted for two weeks after the conflagration and every one of them – except the prior and his dean obviously – had been forced to help with the restoration work.
Fire was good. It cleansed sins both corporeal and spiritual but it was just a means to an end for Osferth. He didn't love the flames and the heady, aromatic smoke they produced for themselves; fire was simply a tool to do God's work. And that was what he had been put on Earth to do, using whatever was at hand.
Friar Tuck was a good man and a good friend to Osferth but he kept bad company.
Like the outlaws in Barnsdale.
They weren't part of God's plan. Something would have to be done about them, and Osferth was the monk to do it.
* * *
The tournament had gone well, Sir Henry de Faucumberg thought, smiling to himself as he watched another wrestling match. The audience – pleasingly large in number – cheered and roared in delight as the two combatants traded blows, grunted curses and threw each other around the grass, sweat dripping from their well-muscled torsos. Occasionally the bout spilled out of the roped-off area and into the crowd, but that only brought even louder shouts of encouragement, especially from the women.
Yes, it had been a successful tournament so far and the local traders would be doing brisk business; making money to bring in more taxes. Now all he needed was that letter from the king giving him permission to hang the wolf's head Allan-a-Dale and, more importantly, send the increasingly erratic Sir Guy of Gisbourne back to London with his new toady Matt Groves. Christ above, what a waste of skin that man was, de Faucumberg mused, glancing over to his right where Gisbourne stood watching the wrestling match with Groves at his side like an eager puppy.
“God's bollocks, sit down, Gisbourne, you're making me nervous standing there,” the sheriff growled, waving a hand to the seat next to him but the bounty hunter ignored the gesture. Only The Raven would prefer to stand on such a warm day, his pitch black armour oiled to perfection and his hand resting menacingly on the pommel of his sword as if he feared a peasant uprising at any moment.
Sir Henry muttered an oath and turned back to the wrestlers irritably, helping himself to another cup of wine from the table before him.
“My lord!” A soldier clad in the blue livery of de Faucumberg's own garrison, rather than one of the men under Gisbourne's command, breathlessly pushed his way through the throng of people and, puffing hard, whispered into the sheriff's ear.
The messenger was rewarded with a grin that split Sir Henry's face from ear to ear and, as Sir Guy walked across to find out what was going on the sheriff hurriedly whispered his instructions to the soldier and waved him off back to his post at the Hun Gate.
“You look inordinately pleased with yourself,” Gisbourne said, finally sitting in the sturdy wooden chair next to de Faucumberg and gazing at the sheriff while Matt Groves moved over to stand protectively behind his captain.
“The king sends word. The friars I dispatched to London have returned.”
Gisbourne nodded, a smile playing around his lips. “Good news, then. The tournament will really come to life with a good hanging on Gallows Hill. Matt!” He turned his head to the side and beckoned the former outlaw over. “Fetch the minstrel from the dungeon –”
“You'll do no such thing!” de Faucumberg shouted, glaring at Groves who returned the look impudently, as if he knew his master Sir Guy was untouchable to the sheriff. “I'll read what the king has to say first, and then I will decide when to hang the outlaw. This is my city, Gisbourne, and my soldiers are in charge of the prisoner so you,” he looked again at Groves, his lip curled in disgust, “can crawl back under your stone, you horrible bastard.”
Groves's face turned crimson with rage but Sir Guy simply grinned at the sheriff's outburst. “Stand down, Matt, we'll wait and see what the king has to say about it. We are merely guests here after all.” He helped himself to a small piece of roasted venison from the platter on the table and, still smiling, turned his attention back to the tournament.
By now the wrestling heats had been completed, the winners had their arms raised and all the competitors bowed to the sheriff before dispersing. Servants hurried to clear away the ropes that had marked the grappling ring and yet more servants carried archery targets onto the grass.
“Looks like the next event is archery,” Matt Groves said, much to the amusement of Sir Guy who laughed even more when he saw the venomous look on the sheriff's face.
“You don't say?” de Faucumberg growled sarcastically. “Look, I invited you to sit with me, Gisbourne, but we don't need... that, here as well. He should be swinging from the gallows beside the minstrel anyway, not standing here at my table. You!” he barked, glowering at the erstwhile wolf's head. “Fuck off.”
Groves looked like he might lose his temper and actually attack the sheriff whose personal guardsmen stepped in close and hefted their halberds threateningly.
“Go, Matt,” Gisbourne waved without turning to look at his second-in-command. “Take yourself off to one of the taverns before the archery begins. I'll see you later.”
Groves nodded to his captain and shoved his way past de Faucumberg's men, snarling at them like a petulant child.
“I thought your old sergeant was a blood-thirsty bastard,” de Faucumberg told the bounty hunter with a shake of his head. “But at least Barnwell was a good soldier and had a modicum of intelligence. That wolf's head is nothing but an angry fool.”
Gisbourne helped himself to another piece of venison which was perfectly cooked – moist and tender – and shrugged disinterestedly. “He is. But he hates Robin Hood even more than I do and he knows how the wolf's heads work. He'll lead us to them eventually, I'm sure. And if he doesn't, well...” He winked his good eye at the sheriff who had to suppress a shudder. “You can hang him if you like then.”
The targets were in place by now and the crowd, which had thinned during the intermission, started to return, ale-skins refilled and meat pies or other savoury delights in hand, their obvious pleasure in this taking away some of de Faucumberg's annoyance. He tried to be a good sheriff to the people of Yorkshire and Nottingham, he truly did, and keeping the people entertained and well-fed and watered was the best way to avoid civil unrest while keeping the traders and merchants that paid
so much to his treasury in taxes happy.
As the first of the longbowmen began to show off their skills de Faucumberg waited, occasionally glancing over his shoulder. Gisbourne watched him from the corner of his eye. It was obvious there was more to the king's letter than simple authorization to hang the outlaw minstrel. Like there had even been any need to petition the king for permission in the first place.
Clearly something else was going on, and Gisbourne watched the sheriff's sly smile warily.
“Oh, very good! Well done that man!” de Faucumberg raised his cup in salute to one of the archers who'd managed to hit the centre of the target, before, again, his glance turned to his rear. This time, though, he sat up in his chair and Gisbourne also swung around to watch the arrival of the Franciscan friars who had been sent south to the capital and King Edward II.
“What the hell is this?” the bounty hunter muttered, hand grasping his sword as he looked to the sheriff for his reaction to the newcomers approaching the table. The archery contest continued; the participants, and the crowd, oblivious to what was going on above them. “Those are no friars.”
The two men in grey cassocks came towards them, the hoods on the garments pulled up to hide their faces in shadow but the great size of both, and one in particular who towered over everyone nearby marked them as a potential threat and Sir Guy got to his feet, sword instantly appearing in his hand from its exquisitely crafted black wood and leather sheath.
The sheriff's own blue-liveried guards, jumpy and nervous as a result of Matt Groves's dressing down and now Gisbourne's reaction to the two friars, crowded around de Faucumberg defensively but the clergymen continued their slow approach until they stood before the table, heads still bowed and faces hidden by their hoods.
“You're the messengers from the king?” de Faucumberg asked, standing to meet them, and was rewarded by the hood on the smaller – yet still massive – man bobbing up and down. “You seem to have grown since I last saw you,” the sheriff noted drily. “Take those hoods off. Slowly, now.”
Rise of the Wolf (The Forest Lord Book 3) Page 17
