Rise of the Wolf (The Forest Lord Book 3)

by Steven A McKay

  “One other thing, Brother,” the landlord continued, his eyes again darting nervously around the shadows.

  “For God's sake, Andrew, spit it out. There's no one here other than us – it's your inn, you must know that yourself!”

  The man looked somewhat embarrassed and gave a nervous smile before continuing. “You're right, of course, but it does no harm to be careful when the likes of Sir Guy of Gisbourne are about. Aye,” he nodded in response to Tuck's anxious expression. “The Raven has taken lodgings just up the road in the Swan. Apparently the sheriff ran him out of Nottingham when Robin took the silver arrow.”

  Tuck held up his hands to stop the inn-keeper's words, a baffled look on his round face. “Wait, hold on man. I've been down in Lewes remember, I have no idea what you're talking about. Fetch Osferth and I another ale – get one for yourself too – and join us. Tell us the whole story. In fact,” he groped inside his cassock for a moment before pulling out a couple of small silver coins and placing them on the table. “If that bastard Gisbourne's about we'd better not be seen. We'll take a room – a decent one, mind. We'll head for Selby in the morning and hope the rumours you heard prove correct. In the meantime – where's that ale? Let's hear about Robin and the silver arrow.”

  With freshly-filled mugs before them, Andrew told Tuck and Osferth what had happened when Robin and Little John had gone to the city to rescue the minstrel Allan-a-Dale. The tale bore little relation to what had actually happened, having grown in the telling as it travelled from mouth to mouth on its way to Horbury via any number of storytellers, each of whom had embellished the events of that day.

  When the landlord finished, a broad smile on his face at the sheriff's humbling by the bold outlaw hero, Tuck couldn't help but return a broad grin of his own. He knew the tale had been exaggerated, but at the core of the thing seemed to be the fact his young friend Robin had won a near-priceless silver arrow from Sir Henry de Faucumberg while he and Little John had saved Allan from a certain hanging.

  It sounded like the sort of legendary feat that seemed to happen when Robin was around. No doubt the minstrels – Allan especially – would be expanding the tale even further until every man, woman and child in England knew what had happened in Nottingham.

  It was late afternoon by now and the men of the town were starting to filter in through the doors, looking for warm ale to chase the damp from their aching joints so Andrew stood up, cheeks flushed from the four mugs of ale he'd downed while chatting with the two clergymen, and excused himself to deal with his new customers.

  “I assume your wife is slaving away in the kitchen,” Tuck called after him, sniffing the air as the pleasant aroma of meat and vegetables roasting wafted through from the back of the building. “Send us out a couple of bowls of whatever that is she's cooking up in there.”

  The meal – beef and ale stew with chunks of fresh bread – proved to be both tasty and filling and Tuck settled back happily in his chair to let the food digest.

  “Maybe it's not such a good idea to sit around here all night,” Osferth said, watching nervously as the front door swung open again and another pair of labourers came in looking for meat and drink. “If that bounty hunter's about, I mean. The Raven did the inn-keep call him? He knows you doesn't he? No point in getting caught before you have a chance to warn your friends is there?”

  Tuck nodded ruefully. “Aye, you have a point. From the sounds of it the news of Robin's whereabouts haven't reached Gisbourne yet or he'd not be hanging around here. So we still have some time, praise be to Our Lord. Aye,” he slapped the table decisively. “You're right, we should keep out of sight. Let me go for a piss then we'll retire to our room for the evening. We can get a good night's sleep and be up early on the morrow.”

  The burly friar got unsteadily to his feet and waved to Andrew who stood behind the wooden bar serving another patron. “Night! We'll be up at dawn – have some bread and cheese ready for us to take will you? Oh, and refill our drinks,” he grinned, waving blearily towards a random pair of empty mugs. “We'll drink 'em in our room.”

  With a final wave the friars lifted the freshly refilled mugs and stumbled from the common room. Stopping only to relieve themselves at the latrine they made their way back to the lodgings Andrew had allocated to them for the night and Tuck slipped the bolt across the door with a satisfied sigh.

  Ah, he'd always enjoyed travelling. Couldn't beat a night in a comfortable, cosy inn, with plenty of food, drink and good company – it was one of life's greatest pleasures.

  He lay down on the bed and sipped at the mug he'd carried along the darkened corridor from the common room, savouring the delicious taste. Funny how even the vilest local ale tasted like Heaven's own nectar after seven or eight mugs he thought.

  Osferth watched, his own mug resting untouched on a chest of drawers – the only piece of furniture in the room other than the two narrow beds, as Tuck's eyelids drooped and, after a short time, the big tonsured head fell forward on to his chest. The mug fell from limp fingers onto the floor, spilling the watery brown liquid on the grimy floorboards and a snore erupted from the friar's open mouth.

  Osferth was glad it didn't take much dwale to send his companion into a deep sleep. Too heavy a dose of the stuff could be fatal and the younger monk liked his portly companion. He'd mixed the strange concoction – made from a variety of ingredients including henbane, vinegar and lettuce – with Tuck's ale whenever he needed the friar to take a long, unbroken nap. Like now.

  The snoring filled the little room and Osferth smiled down at the slumbering form affectionately as he opened the door just wide enough to slip out into the hallway.

  “Sleep tight, brother,” he whispered, before losing himself in the shadows. “I'll be back just as soon as I've met the Raven.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  James was lucky – the landlord of the Swan had one room remaining, a tiny cramped affair which seemed more like a storeroom than a place to spend a night but there was a pallet on the floor in which the young man could lie down if he kept his legs bent.

  It was good enough for James who simply wanted a place to keep out of the reach of his erstwhile, murderous colleagues and the Swan, with its resident Raven, was perfect. Mark and Ivo, outlaws both, would never dare to set foot in the place, even if they knew their hated quarry was staying there for the night.

  He had the silver they'd taken from the merchant and he decided to use it to enjoy his evening so he found a seat in the large common room as close to the fire as he could manage, although the place was busy and the benches nearest to the hearth were prime locations for cold and weary patrons.

  He bought a mug of ale from the bald, bearded landlord and sipped at it contentedly. The king's bounty hunter was in the corner with his sergeant, much nearer to the fire than James. The man stood out like a fox in a henhouse; confidence and an air of barely repressed violence emanated from his black-clad figure and James was glad he'd decided to give up robbing folk with Mark and Ivo. The thought of the tall, wiry Raven hunting him down made him shiver.

  A number of locals, clearly friends, sat together at a long table singing songs and telling jokes and James watched from the corner of his eye, enjoying the silly banter and ribald verse that was being belted out.

  The bounty-hunter didn't seem to mind the drunken revelry but his companion, a dour-faced middle-aged man occasionally threw the noisy group an irritated glare and James suspected that hard looking lawman was more likely to be the source of trouble than any of the cheerful locals.

  Another song ended and James finished his ale, smacking his lips in satisfaction and feeling in his coin-purse to see if he had enough for many more. Plenty yet, he said to himself and made his way to the bar, asking the man seated next to him to save his seat for him.

  “Another of these, please, inn-keep.”

  The landlord held up a hand distractedly and James noticed the man was talking to a clergyman of some kind; a thin man in a black robe or c
assock With a start, James realised it was Friar Tuck's travelling companion who'd ridden past him and the other thieves that afternoon. James scanned the room, fearful that Tuck might be there too and recognize him; he'd been friendly enough but still, the friar might give him away to Sir Guy.

  The landlord was pointing at the sinister-looking bounty-hunter and, as Osferth apologetically shoved his way through the crowd of drinkers towards the lawman's corner seat James shook his head. Of course Tuck wouldn't give him away to Sir Guy – quite the opposite in fact, since the friar was, or had been, a member of Robin Hood's gang. It was common knowledge that Gisbourne and Hood's men were mortal enemies, there were even songs about it.

  As Osferth leaned down and spoke into Sir Guy's ear James knew something was amiss. The barman handed him a fresh ale, taking a little coin in return, and the young man surreptitiously pushed his way through the patrons towards the fire.

  He was curious and wondered why a companion of Tuck's would be sneaking into the Swan to talk privately with the king's man. As he went, muttering apologies to those he was gently moving aside, he made a show of blowing on his hands as if the warm, cosy hearth was what drew him nearer.

  Gisbourne's sergeant watched his captain converse with the monk, a crooked smile on his face and, unnoticed by the trio, James stood with his back to them, straining to catch what was being said.

  “How will we know where you're going?” Gisbourne was saying. “If we follow too closely the fat friar might hear us and lead us off in the wrong direction. Or the outlaws' lookouts will spot us and raise the alarm before we can silence them.”

  “I'll leave a trail for you to follow,” the monk replied, smiling. “I'll carve a small cross on a tree whenever I can – all you'll have to do is look out for them to know the way. Tuck seems to think the camp will be about a mile north-east of the village.”

  “And you're sure the friar doesn't suspect you?”

  “Aye, he's no fool,” Gisbourne's sergeant put in. “A fat, pious prick, sure, but no fool.”

  Osferth shook his head but looked angry at the crude epithet the man had given Tuck. “No, he doesn't suspect anything. Why would he? I'm not acting nervously or anything like that which could give me away. I'm doing God's work and saving his soul.” He glared at Sir Guy's right-hand man. “Tuck is a good man, whatever you think of him. He trusts me.”

  The bounty-hunter waved a dismissive hand in Matt's direction. “Ignore him brother – he thinks everyone's a prick. Well, that's it settled then: in the morning you and the friar will head for Selby. Me and Matt here will follow and look out for your carvings on the tree trunks. All being well, we'll discover Hood's camp and can prepare an overwhelming assault which will wipe out the wolf's head and his gang once and for all.”

  “You won't hurt Tuck, though,” the monk said, looking straight into Sir Guy's eyes. Clearly the Benedictine wasn't overawed or frightened of the big bounty-hunter which made James wonder if the man was all right in the head.

  “Fear not for your friend,” Gisbourne said, then his hand dropped and he clasped the monk's wrist painfully. “If you lead us right in this I'm sure your prior back in Lewes will reward you with a promotion or whatever it is you desire, but...” A dagger seemed to appear from nowhere, its flawless blade glinting in the firelight as Gisbourne placed it under the monk's chin. “If you double-cross us or think to lead us into a trap, well, let's just say Christ and all the saints of heaven won't be able to stop the pain and suffering I'll inflict upon you.”

  The monk pulled his wrist back, looking annoyed rather than scared by the Raven's violent vow. “Just remember not to hurt Tuck.”

  The conversation obviously neared a conclusion so James slowly squeezed back through the milling drinkers and retook his bench with a smile of thanks to his neighbour who gave a small wave in recognition and returned to his own conversation with the local on his other side.

  What did it mean? James's mind whirled as he watched the thin monk leave the inn. Was Tuck really going to lead soldiers to Robin Hood's camp? He should warn the friar, he thought, but... how could he? Why would the man even believe him, a common thief?

  Where did they say Hood's camp was? Selby, wasn't it? James knew the way to that village. Suddenly it was clear to him what he had to do. He couldn't find a job in the town anyway and he'd burnt his bridges with Mark too so there was little reason to hang around here.

  No, he'd head for Selby and warn Robin Hood himself. With any luck the tales of the wolf's head's fairness and generosity hadn't been exaggerated too much and he'd be grateful to James for saving them... might even be a nice fat reward in it since the outlaws were famously wealthy from robbing rich merchants and churchmen.

  His mind made up, and feeling better about his prospects than he had in months, James downed the last dregs in his mug and followed the departed monk into the chill night.

  * * *

  He knew he was taking a chance, what with Gisbourne being after his blood even harder than before, but Robin missed his family and so he'd travelled to Wakefield with Will Scarlet that morning, which was where he heard the news.

  “The king is coming,” Matilda said, rearranging her clothes after a hurried but satisfying session of love-making.

  Robin stared up at the wooden rafters for a moment, wondering if he'd heard his wife correctly before he sat up and stared at her, admiring her lithe figure as she buttoned the front of her tunic. “What?”

  “The king's coming,” she repeated. “He's visiting places around here to check they're being run correctly or something. Checking the sheriffs and the like are sending him as much tax as they're supposed to I expect.”

  “And he's coming here? To Wakefield?”

  Matilda shrugged and sat on the bed next to him, a contented smile on her lips. God she'd missed Robin, it had felt good to feel his muscular body next to hers again. “Well, maybe not to Wakefield, but to Yorkshire. Maybe he'll pass through here on his way to one of the bigger towns or cities, who knows?” She fixed him with a hard glare. “Don't you even think about trying to rob him.”

  The big outlaw laughed and leaned forward, pulling his wife back down on top of him. “I'm not insane,” he grinned. “Even if Edward is a personal acquaintance of mine, I doubt his guards would stand back while me and the lads stole his money.”

  “Get off,” Matilda laughed in reply, pushing Robin's grasping hands away and standing back up. “Come on, little Arthur will be wanting something to eat. I've got some cheese he likes – you can share it too if you like.”

  A shadow passed over his face as he wondered how sensible it was to hang around in the village for too long but he pushed his fears aside and nodded. “Aye, it'd be nice to have a meal with my family again. I hope there's some of your ma's ale too. She knows how to brew, Mary, I'll say that for her.”

  “Yes, there's ale, and cheese, and bread too. Might even be some salted pork. My ma's out working a lot of the time now, though – I've started brewing the ale since I'm about the house with Arthur all day.”

  Although Robin's extended family, which included his own parents and sister as well as Matilda's mother and father, were well off thanks to Robin's success as a robber, the women were still expected to do their fair share of the chores, be it brewing ale, washing or mending clothes or cooking hearty meals.

  The wolf's head clasped his wife's hand and squeezed. “That's good to hear, you were already the best wife in the world and now... you're making me ale. A man couldn't ask for more.”

  Without thinking the girl muttered something about him not being an outlaw and living at home with them, and she regretted the words as soon as they tumbled from her mouth, but Robin chose to pretend he hadn't heard her and they walked into the main room of the house still holding hands.

  “There you are, you were in there for ages. What were you doing?” Robin's younger sister Marjorie asked innocently, her eyes taking in the unkempt hair and clothes of her brother and sister-in-law.


  Matilda flushed crimson but Robin just raised an eyebrow and pointedly ignored the question. At her age Marjorie knew fine well what had been going on in the bed room - she'd be getting married herself soon enough he thought, wondering again if his father had found a husband for her yet.

  “How was he?” Matilda asked, scooping her infant son out of Marjorie's arms, grinning and touching her nose to the boy's who squealed in delight, bringing a smile to Robin's face too.

  Marjorie spent much of her time at the Fletcher's now, helping Matilda with chores and taking care of Arthur if his mother needed to do something. The girl had looked after him for the short time Robin and Matilda had been... busy.

  “He was fine. Sat on the floor and played with his little animals.” Marjorie waved to the finely carved little wooden toys – cows, sheep and pigs – that Robin had bought for his son in Barnsley when the big market was on.

  “Oh, he loves those,” Matilda said. “He sits and plays with them all day.”

  Robin was inordinately pleased to know his gift had brought his little boy so much pleasure but his gaze turned to his sister and he hid the frown that threatened to appear as he took in her diminutive stature. Despite Robin making sure his family always had enough money to buy nutritious food, his little sister's drawn face always made his heart heavy.

  “How have you been?” He sat at the table, facing her, and smiled in gratitude as Matilda placed a wooden platter with bread, cheese and meat down in front of them. “Here,” he said, handing a large slice of cheese to his sister who took it gladly.

  “Fine,” she said, shrugging as if his question was unimportant. “Did you know the king's coming?”

  Robin allowed the shift in conversation to pass, not wanting to upset his sister. He hardly got to see her these days and the last thing he wanted to do was make her unhappy. So he simply nodded and smiled although he had to admit, as he watched her from the corner of his eye, she appeared to finally be putting a little weight on, God be praised.