Rise of the Wolf (The Forest Lord Book 3)

by Steven A McKay

  The galloping riders slowed as they reached the small stone wall, betraying their inexperience on horseback as they tentatively coaxed the big palfreys across the minor impediment. Without another glance in the king's direction they rode into the trees on the other side of the road and disappeared from sight.

  The king watched them go, an unreadable expression on his face, before he turned back to the sheriff.

  “Clearly they're in a hurry. Too much of a hurry to use the road. What town lies yonder?”

  De Faucumberg gazed into the trees, picturing the local area in his mind's-eye before replying. “Castleford,” he shrugged. “Where we're headed ourselves.”

  “Anything else?”

  Again, the sheriff thought for a moment, trying to access a mental map of the whole region before he nodded thoughtfully.

  “Wakefield is basically on the same line from here as Castleford, sire. Wakefield is Hood's home, or was, before he became a wolf's head.”

  “Interesting.” Edward continued to lead his people forward for a few moments, still staring into the undergrowth that had swallowed up the outlaws. Finally he turned to his captain.

  “Bring half-a-dozen men and follow us,” he swung back to de Faucumberg. “Sheriff – lead the way to Wakefield.” He touched the hilt of his own great long-sword, grinning as he felt its reassuring bulk. “I'd very much like to see what's got my friar friends in such a state that they barely even register the presence of the royal household on the road next to them. Lead on, man, lead on!”

  Sir Henry de Faucumberg, stunned as he was, knew better than to argue with a command from the king and he kicked his heels into his mount, urging it into a gallop and through the small gap in the trees which had recently claimed Hood and his companions.

  King Edward II, monarch of all England, whooped like an excited child and followed, politics and all the other tedious nonsense he was forced to endure completely forgotten.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Sir Guy of Gisbourne wasn't in his right mind; he hadn't been for a long time now. Ever since that piece of filth Robin Hood had carved open his face. That was when it had begun. The defeat had done more than just wound him physically – his pride had suffered and he'd found himself having dark thoughts the like of which he'd never had before.

  Self-doubt had begun to gnaw at him like a rat on a corpse.

  Every time he thought of the wolf's head living on, enjoying a reputation not only as some legendary outlaw but, now, as the man who'd bested him, the king's own bounty hunter...

  When Matt Groves had joined his group things had become much worse. Gisbourne might have known his new second-in-command was purposefully trying to stoke Gisbourne's hatred but it didn't matter – the black emotion had grown and grown until it became all-encompassing. When Hood and his giant mate had managed to free the minstrel from Nottingham it had felt like a physical blow to the king's man. After the sheriff had driven him out of the city and he'd managed to get some time alone, away from his men, he had actually vomited. The stress and fury inside him at Hood's charmed existence – while he himself was being made to seem like a bumbling oaf – had overcome him and it had been shocking to a man who prided himself on his rigid self-control.

  He glanced up at the sky to check the sun's position overhead and make sure he was heading in the right direction. He'd have run all through the night if he could but exhaustion finally swamped him and it was probably just as well as travelling in the darkness was a sure way to suffer an injury by running into a tree branch or planting a foot in a dip in the ground and breaking an ankle or worse. So he'd found a small clearing and built a fire to keep inquisitive animals away, although it was cold and dead by the time he woke up before sunrise the following morning and his body ached terribly from the few hours sleep he'd had.

  Some part of him knew he was acting irrationally and was planning to do something that went totally against his character, but he pushed his conscience to one side and upped his pace. He no longer cared about morals, honour, or appearances; all he wanted to do was bring pain down on Robin Hood, just as the despised wolf's head had done to him.

  Life hadn't been good to him, he reflected. He'd never wanted to be a bounty-hunter, or even a soldier, but his wife, who he loved dearly, had cheated on him numerous times, prompting him to leave his home. Even then, under that sort of strain and knowing he was the talk of the village, he'd still never hit his wife. Striking a woman was something weak men did; men with little moral fibre and no self-control. It was a coward's response to a situation.

  And yet here he was, on his way to murder not only a woman, but a child too. The thought didn't shock him or prompt any sort of emotional reaction at all – he felt numb and as if he was no longer in charge of his own body. Killing Hood's family was the only option open to Gisbourne now that the wolf's head had destroyed his soldiers again.

  He wasn't going to Wakefield to indulge some sadistic fantasy – it was merely something he had to do to punish the outlaw leader. Gisbourne knew he wasn't half the swordsman he'd been before Hood had taken his eye, so there would be no wasting time once he reached the town.

  He knew where to go; knew where the Fletcher's house was and once he'd completed his task, he'd head back to Nottingham. Or maybe London. Or France?

  His mind seemed to spin frantically with ideas and emotions yet, paradoxically, he found himself in a serene sort of trance-like state as his soft black leather boots covered the miles and drew him ever closer to Wakefield.

  Eventually, the smoke that rose from the hearths in the little town became visible over the tree-tops and Gisbourne's hand dropped to his sword hilt. He still carried the deadly little crossbow with its hazel stock and steel bow that he'd had custom made in Italy but he didn't even carry ammunition for it these days – his depth perception had been ruined when he'd lost his eye and he simply couldn't hit the target with the projectile weapon no matter how much he practised with it. Still, it looked lethal, and impressed the peasants, which was why he still bore it.

  No, he wouldn't be using the soft option when it came time to despatch Matilda Hood and her offspring. He would look them in the eye as he told them why they had to die and then he'd send them into God's arms on the end of his treasured longsword.

  As Wakefield came nearer Gisbourne concealed himself in the trees that fringed the southern end of the village. The house that Matilda Hood shared with her parents was located quite close to the edge of town and it would be easier for the king's man to find his prey if he avoided walking through the streets for as long as possible.

  He moved quietly, although he was no woodsman like Hood or one of his gang, and if anyone had been nearby they would surely have heard his approach. But the townsfolk were busy going about their daily work and no one suspected the danger that lurked so close-by. The air was filled with the sounds of that work – a hammer ringing brightly on an anvil; peasants singing as they tended the fields not too far off; women laughing and gossiping as they washed clothes in one of the streams that fed into the Calder...

  It was a pleasant, sunny day like any other and Gisbourne felt a pang of jealousy at the simple, uncomplicated lives these commoners led. They were born, lived unremarkable little lives no-one outside of the town cared about, and then they died, forgotten and lost in the mists of time. And yet... they were happy, or at least they seemed to be happy enough as the king's bounty hunter watched from his hiding place.

  Perhaps those peasants would never know what it felt like to be blessed with a rare and remarkable talent like Gisbourne's skill with a blade but they had their families and their inexorable routines, and he watched, wishing he had a life like that, and he hated them for it.

  Finally he reached a spot near the street that the Fletchers' house was on but he stopped, wondering how to proceed.

  He couldn't simply walk into the town without people noticing him, and perhaps attempting to impede what he'd come to do. Although his reputation would likely be
enough to stop anyone from accosting him unprovoked, without any of his guards to back him up the locals might become violent when he found Hood's wife and drew his sword.

  Then, as he knelt on the soft, damp grass, pondering his next move, he offered a silent prayer of thanks to God as he spotted two girls and a small, toddling figure coming out of a house and turning to walk in his direction, broad smiles on their faces.

  Hood's wife and infant son.

  God was clearly on his side.

  This would be easier than he'd hoped.

  * * *

  “Was that the fucking king?” Will Scarlet shouted in disbelief as their horses ploughed into the undergrowth, picking their way through the trees with an uncanny grace that Little John, who'd hardly ever ridden, found astonishing.

  “Aye,” the giant replied, also raising his voice to be heard over the drumming of hooves, jingling of harnesses and wind in their ears. “The king, and the sheriff too from the looks of it. Christ only knows what they made of us three riding across their path without so much as a 'Your Highness'.”

  “What if they follow us?” Will shouted, more to himself than John or Robin. “If de Faucumberg recognised us, and tells the king who we are... the royal guards will come looking for us.”

  John remained silent and Robin wasn't even listening to his companions, being too focused on making it to Wakefield as quickly as possible. They too had been forced to rest when the sun set and the night had almost sent the young wolf's head over the edge with worry before they were able to continue their pursuit.

  He'd met King Edward's eyes as they passed the royal party, just for a fleeting moment, before they managed to coax their mounts over the low stone wall and into the undergrowth, but he felt sure there'd been a spark of recognition in the monarch's eyes.

  Ultimately, it made no difference whether the king and his soldiers came after them; Robin had to stop Gisbourne before he could harm Matilda or Arthur, and his two friends were willing to put their own lives on the line to support their young leader. Even if it meant fighting the King of England himself.

  Wakefield came into sight as they burst out of the foliage and found themselves racing through a field of barley which was being tended by a number of peasants. The farmers fell back instinctively at the sight of the heavily armed and armoured grim-faced horsemen charging towards the town.

  One man, braver than the rest, shouted what was possibly a greeting at them and Little John waved a big hand, nodding reassuringly towards the farmer who took in the size of the rider before his eyes travelled across Will and Robin pulling away at the front of the equine triangle.

  The man grinned, glad to see the outlaws who always brought food or money to the people of Wakefield but his expression wavered as the riders charged past without slowing, silent and grim, and clearly engaged on some errand that promised to end only in violence and death.

  The man hefted his sickle and ran towards the village himself, shouting for his fellow workers to come too. Robin Hood and his men were friends – whatever they were doing, they would have support of the people of Wakefield.

  The outlaws thundered into the village's main street, eyes scanning the area for either Matilda or Gisbourne, but all they could see were bemused locals who stared back, wondering what in God's name was happening.

  “We'll split up,” Robin said, rounding on his companions. “Gisbourne is still dangerous but with one eye missing he can't possibly be the swordsman he was; any one of us should be able to handle him alone if need be, and we'll cover much more ground if we go in separate directions. John, you head for the well in the centre of the village. Scarlet, you find Patrick, the headman, tell him to gather the tithing – the more men we have searching for Gisbourne the better.”

  Will opened his mouth to argue – to say he was heading for the Fletchers' himself, since his own daughter Beth lived there too, but he knew Robin's plan made sense. There was no point in the two of them going to the same place when Gisbourne could be anywhere in or around the village. Besides, there had been no threat made towards Beth – Scarlet doubted the king's man even knew about the girl. The danger was all centred on his captain's family, so Will simply nodded in grim agreement.

  Robin looked around, eyes darting from shadow to shadow trying to find his hated enemy. “I'll head for the Fletchers' and pray to the Magdalene that Matilda and Arthur are safe there. Go! And take care – he might not be England's greatest swordsman any more, but he's still deadly.”

  He kicked his heels into his palfrey's sides and held on desperately, cursing his inexperience as the horse almost threw him back into the road, but he managed to hold on and soon spotted the simple two-storey house that belonged to Henry Fletcher and was also home to Matilda and Arthur, as well as Will's daughter.

  As he reached the building he looked further along the road and his heart leapt in his chest as he spotted the familiar gait of his wife, accompanied by a smaller girl he recognised her as his sister Marjorie. They were walking away from him, following the tiny figure of Arthur, his son.

  Praise be to God, they were safe!

  Still warily scanning the houses on either side of the street he dismounted and began to walk towards his family, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Before he could shout on them to wait, though, a black-armoured figure appeared from the dense foliage at the end of the street and ran forward, long-sword in hand, the naked blade glinting wickedly in the sunshine.

  A cry of despair tore from Robin's throat and he broke into a sprint, dragging his own blade free from its leather scabbard, but he was much too far away to reach Arthur before the Raven would.

  His long legs ate up the distance between them, and Robin watched in amazement as his skinny, malnourished little sister Marjorie, obviously spotting the approaching danger, began to move herself. She shouted in alarm at the toddler ahead of her who turned, eyes wide in surprise, soft face twisted in a grimace of fear and confusion at the terror in Marjorie's voice.

  Behind him, though, the one-eyed bounty hunter came on, black as night and just as inexorable, and Robin screamed a challenge at him, to fight one-on-one, man-to-man, as they'd done before on the outskirts of Dalton not so many months ago.

  The Raven looked up from the small figure in the road in front of him, seeing Hood coming towards them but too far away yet to be a threat and he roared in triumph, completely lost in the madness that had overcome his life-long iron discipline.

  Gisbourne raised his exquisite oiled blade and, single eye blazing, targeted the child standing in the dusty road before him.

  Matilda screamed, as did her husband who charged along the road towards their son knowing deep down that he had no chance of reaching Arthur in time to save him.

  But Marjorie – skinny, withered Marjorie – had also run forward when she'd seen the danger approaching. The toddler stood, bewildered and terrified, in the centre of the road as his aunt pumped her legs harder than she'd ever done in her entire life, then a cry tore from Arthur's lips as the girl knocked him sideways, hard, away from the oncoming sword of Sir Guy of Gisbourne.

  The infant was sent crashing to the ground at the side of Gisbourne's feet, howling, and again, Robin was astonished as Marjorie pulled a short wooden practice sword from beneath her skirts and used it to desperately batter the Raven's sword hand away to the side.

  It was enough to buy Robin time to finally reach Marjorie and, as he did so he lunged at Gisbourne, trying to skewer his son's would-be murderer, but the king's man dodged to the side and the wolf's head's thrust missed its target.

  Knowing he couldn't survive a fight with the burly outlaw Gisbourne reached out and grasped the arm of the young girl who had thwarted his mission. He was much too strong for her, although she tried desperately to break free, even sinking her teeth into the Raven's hand but he simply slapped her, hard across the head and she went limp in his arms.

  “Stand down, Hood.”

  Robin froze, staring in horror at the craz
ed, one-eyed madman that held his sister's life in his hands. Matilda came up behind him, shouting on Arthur as he got to his feet unsteadily and, tears streaming down his face, toddled hurriedly towards his mother who lifted him with a sob of her own and cuddled him in protectively.

  Gisbourne glared at the despised wolf's head, both of them breathing heavily as they eyed one another with murderous loathing. The king's man had no idea who this girl he held hostage was – if he'd known she was Hood's sister he'd have surely killed her right then. As it was, she'd be a useful bargaining tool that might see him escape from what had become a hopeless situation.

  “Drop your sword, Hood, or I kill this little bitch. Her life's in your hands.” He squeezed his arm around Marjorie's throat until she started to turn blue and her attempts to break free stopped as she went limp.

  Robin's mind whirled madly as he tried to take control of the situation but he could see no way out.

  Suddenly the sound of pounding hooves came towards them and Gisbourne's wild eye widened in disbelief as he saw the newcomers behind Hood, although he never let go of Marjorie who appeared to be unconscious now.

  “Robin!” From the street to the side even more voices approached and the outlaw captain saw Little John and Will Scarlet approaching in his peripheral vision.

  “You men, drop your weapons.”

  Robin heard the voice and recognized it: King Edward II. He'd managed to follow them here after all. But the wolf's head ignored the king – he wasn't about to let the Raven murder his sister.

  “Gisbourne!” Sheriff Henry de Faucumberg's furious voice filled the street now as he slid off the back of his mount with practised ease and walked imperiously towards the man he'd been saddled with for more than a year. “You heard your king. Let the girl go and drop your weapon.”