The Wolf and the Raven

by Steven A McKay

  As they carefully moved forward the gentle murmur of a number of men in relaxed conversation could be heard and, when the soldiers came to a small clearing they could make out the tell-tale grey smoke from the camp-fire a little way ahead of them.

  Sir Guy gestured to his men to encircle the camp and, with the efficiency and discipline of professional soldiers they moved to obey his silent order.

  Although there was a good possibility these men cooking meat and laughing together were innocent travellers – merchants perhaps, or even wandering friars – Gisbourne was too experienced a bounty-hunter to take any chances.

  He carried a small, neatly made crossbow, painted black, rather than a longbow. Generally, the crossbow was an inefficient, unwieldy weapon, mainly used by peasants or untrained soldiers. But Gisbourne’s smaller weapon, which he’d had specially made by an Italian craftsman, with its stock made from hazel, a steel bow and a hemp string, was deadly at closer ranges.

  He carried it on a leather strap slung over his right shoulder, but now he slipped it down into his hand, placed a bolt in it and cocked it by pulling the lever down.

  He waited a few moments to let his men get into position, then as Nicholas nodded, judging enough time had passed to have the camp-site encircled, Gisbourne raised his arm.

  “Move in,” he growled, gesturing towards the rebels.

  This close to the men by the fire it was impossible to remain undetected for long as twenty five lightly armoured men rushed forward between the trees, bursting through the undergrowth to stand, weapons drawn in a loose but impressive perimeter around the small clearing where the remains of an old sheep was slowly roasting over the little fire.

  The surprised rebels, in a panic, scrambled to defend themselves. It was obvious they were no merchants or churchmen from their threadbare clothing and array of pitiful weaponry which they brandished threateningly at the silent soldiers surrounding them.

  Gisbourne, his mouth watering at the sight and smell of the mutton skewered above the fire, held his crossbow by his side as his eyes took in the frightened faces of the men before him.

  He was a tall man, although he wasn’t powerfully built, being more wiry than massively muscled, but his clothing and bearing clearly marked him as the leader of the soldiers facing the rebels. With his short black hair and stubble, dark eyes and confident, relaxed stance, every one of the rebels felt their gaze drawn to him like iron filings to a dark magnet. Clad all in black, from head to toe, with a boiled leather cuirass moulded to show the shape of his chest, he knew he was an imposing figure and revelled in the sinister power he exuded.

  “What do you want?” One of the rebels asked, his voice wavering. He was a broad shouldered young man, obviously an archer, although his bow was nowhere to be seen, probably discarded when he and his comrades fled from Boroughbridge. He hefted a cheap looking sword and tried his best to look menacing. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Gisbourne wandered forward and, drawing his dagger with his left hand, cut a small piece of meat from the bottom of the skewered mutton. He lifted it to his lips and blew on the crisp meat gently to cool it, his eyes taking in the men before him, resting eventually on the man who had spoken. The leader, obviously.

  “You’ve done nothing wrong, eh?” Gisbourne took the small slice of meat in his mouth and chewed slowly, a smile of pleasure lighting his dark features. “Where did you get this meat then?”

  The rebel was ready for the question, stammering his reply almost before the question was asked. “We bought it from the butcher in Wooley, you can ask him.”

  Sir Guy finished the mouthful of mutton and placed his dagger back in its sheath in his boot. “You men are rebels. Outlaws,” he stated, ignoring the cries of denial from the men before him as he continued. “And you have stolen this sheep from some local farmer.”

  The men again shouted their innocence, the fear plain on their faces. These were no hardy soldiers – they were armed mostly with pitchforks, blunt hatchets and hammers. Not one of them wore even light armour.

  Every one of them looked terrified and desperate.

  “Please, my lord,” their young leader begged. “We’re just peasants. We were forced to join the Earl of Lancaster’s army!”

  “Peasants you may be,” Gisbourne replied disdainfully, “but your king seeks justice for your treason.” He raised his crossbow. “Kill them,” he ordered, as he squeezed the trigger and watched the wicked steel bolt hammer into the young rebel’s chest, throwing the man stumbling backwards onto the grass where he lay, gasping and crying pitifully.

  The soldiers moved in and engaged the panicked rebels who offered little resistance, the pitchforks proving no match for the sharpened steel Gisbourne’s men wielded so mercilessly.

  One of the outlaws flew straight for the black-clad bounty-hunter, screaming with rage as he pulled his axe – more suited to chopping wood than cleaving skulls – behind him, ready to bring it down on Gisbourne’s head. “You shot my brother you bastard!”

  Sir Guy dropped his crossbow on the ground and sidestepped the rebel’s wild downward swing, pulling his sword smoothly from its scabbard as the youngster barrelled past. The polished silver steel stood out in stark contrast against Gisbourne’s all black attire as, spinning nearly full circle, arm outstretched, he hammered the razor sharp blade into the axe-man’s neck.

  The young man, only just into his teens from the look of his beardless face, was thrown sideways to the ground, the great wound erupting in blood as he fell.

  The fight was over within seconds, as Gisbourne’s soldiers cut down the frightened peasants. The victorious soldiers searched the dead men for valuables but found nothing, as their dark leader took out his dagger and cheerfully helped himself to more slices of roast mutton.

  “Dig in, lads,” he grinned, gesturing at the dead rebels. “These boys have lost their appetite.”

  * * *

  Late that afternoon, as Robin and his men sat around the fire talking quietly and eating their pottage the sounds of fighting could be heard, carried by the light westerly wind that ruffled the new green leaves in the trees.

  “How close do you think that is?” Much wondered, hand dropping instinctively to his waist, although his sword lay on the ground beside him. He picked it up and fastened the belt reassuringly around himself. “Doesn’t sound that far off.”

  Will shook his head. “It sounds closer because of the wind – we’re in no danger, whatever it is that’s happening.”

  The sounds of metal on metal and men shouting, or occasionally screaming, faded soon enough; the silence that replaced it feeling oppressive and eerie under the canopy of beech trees the outlaws were using as a camp.

  “You think that was the sheriff’s men and some of the other rebels?” Tuck asked no one in particular, lifting his thick blanket and wrapping it around his thick torso.

  “Aye, no doubt,” Little John nodded, his great voice jarring in the stillness. “Those rebels don’t know how to use the forest like we do,” he went on, quieter this time. “They’ve got no chance – the soldiers will eventually get them all.”

  “The soldiers will leave then,” Will nodded, stretching out on the grass, watching the sky as the sun set. “We’ll have less to worry about when that happens. Just the foresters and this bounty-hunter the king’s sent after us.”

  “Guy of Gisbourne,” Tuck agreed. “He’s tied up chasing the rebels for now, but we’ll have to be on our guard for him. They say he’s like a shadow, just appears beside you when you least expect it.”

  “The Raven,” Allan-a-Dale muttered. “Black as night and merciless too.”

  “Trust the minstrel to have something romantic to say!” Will snorted, drawing laughs from the others.

  “Shut it, Scarlet,” Allan grinned back good-naturedly. “I never came up with it; the people in Nottingham are calling him the Raven.”

  “They can call him whatever they like,” Robin stood up, carrying his empty bowl over to
the nearby stream to rinse it out. “We’ve been hunted by Adam Bell remember – a Knight Templar, who knew this forest inside out. And even he couldn’t stop us,” he shouted over his shoulder, kneeling to dip the wooden vessel in the clear waters.

  The men began to relax again as night drew in, knowing the four lookouts they always had posted around their camp would alert them in plenty of time to any danger. The sounds of men fighting, and dying, so close by had unsettled most of them though.

  Robin decided to move their camp again in the morning.

  * * *

  The young outlaw had chosen a spot near the village of Hathersage for their new base. Little John and Will told him of a good place they had used once before a couple of years earlier, when Adam Bell had led them. On their way, they carefully scouted the area they had heard the sounds of battle coming from the previous afternoon.

  Twelve men lay dead in and around a small clearing they had obviously been using as a camp-site. From the looks of it, they were all poor men – peasants. Their cheap clothes were threadbare, and their hands showed the tell-tale signs of years of hard labour. Only a couple carried swords, which were of inferior quality and as good as worthless or their killers would have taken them rather than leaving them discarded on the grass. The rest of the dead men had only the tools of their trade: pitchforks, hammers or axes.

  “They never stood a chance,” Tuck noted, moving among the corpses, closing their sightless eyes and muttering blessings. “A dozen poorly armed peasants against a force of well-drilled soldiers.” He shook his head sorrowfully, gazing down at a boy no more than thirteen summers who had been almost decapitated. “May you find peace in heaven, my child.”

  As the outlaws travelled to their new camp-site, they brooded silently, the sight of the dead rebels dampening any thoughts of banter or good cheer.

  They reached their new base not long after midday, and set about making the place secure. Most of the men had stayed here before and knew the lie of the land. Robin smiled with satisfaction as the outlaws erected their animal-skin shelters and renewed the lookout posts they had used during their previous stay.

  Will caught his smile and nodded with a grin of his own. “They hardly need a leader this lot. They know how to look after themselves.”

  “Let’s leave them to it then,” Robin agreed. “I’m going into Hathersage for some supplies – you coming? It'll take the rest of the day to get there, so we'll stay the night in the inn. Have a few beers...”

  Will’s grin widened – not so long ago he would have never set foot in Hathersage for all the money in the world. He had lived there once, and – he believed – his whole family had been butchered there by the former lord of the manor. But Robin had returned his beloved little daughter, Beth – alive! – to him, and as a result Will’s old scars were beginning to heal over. A trip into the village would suit him well enough and he’d be glad to share an ale with his friend Wilfred, the baker.

  “Come on, then,” Robin said, slapping him on the shoulder, “we’ll take Tuck with us too.”

  * * *

  As they neared Hathersage the sun was setting, casting long shadows along the path, and the three outlaws glanced at each other, wondering if they were imagining things. The sounds of men engaged in combat from the night before seemed to echo through the trees again, and they halted in their tracks, listening intently, hands tightening around their sword hilts.

  It was unmistakable: there was fighting in Hathersage.

  “Move!” Robin cried, racing towards the village.

  His two older companions followed at a slightly slower pace, Will charging wildly after his leader, sword held high, and the overweight friar bringing up the rear breathlessly, gripping his stout quarterstaff grimly, muttering to himself. “I warned you about those rebels.”

  As Robin raced into the village’s main street, he could see they were just in time. A small group of armed men, no more than a dozen at Robin’s count, stood grinning wickedly, brandishing their weapons confidently. At their feet lay a hefty white clad figure, the crimson stain forming around his midriff suggesting he wouldn’t be getting up again any time soon.

  A crowd of frightened villagers faced off against the men, but only one of them – the blacksmith – was armed. He hefted his great hammer menacingly, thick blue veins bulging almost obscenely on his heavily muscled arms. The other village men looked bewildered, although more appeared, with one or two finally having the presence of mind to collect their longbows from their dwellings. Robin could see more of the locals darting off into the forest – mothers carrying children, older women trying their best to move quickly but glancing fearfully over their shoulders in case their doom should find them. Even some of the village men, unused to violence of this nature, were deserting the place until things calmed down.

  Of those remaining, their faces were angry, but they lacked the confidence to tackle the gloating rebels, especially when one of their own lay dead on the street in front of them.

  Robin slowed, dropping his cumbersome longbow on the ground, trying to catch his breath as he walked up to stand in front of the rebels, a little way apart from the villagers. “What’s happening here?” he demanded, glaring at the men before him. They were a motley lot, most of them looking somewhat malnourished after their time hiding out in Barnsdale. One of them, an ugly looking bastard with a great scar on his cheek and only a couple of blackened teeth left, stared back arrogantly at the young outlaw.

  “We just came here looking to buy supplies,” the rebel smirked, spreading his hands wide innocently. “Then this fat old prick tries to stab one of my friends here.”

  The other rebels chorused agreement, but the village blacksmith roared indignantly. “Liar! You were stealing from the traders, and when you lifted Wilfred’s loaves he tried to stop you. You murdered him!”

  Robin’s stomach lurched and his eyes dropped to the white figure on the ground. Blood had formed a thick pool around him, and now the young man recognised the murdered villager. It was his friend, Wilfred the baker, who had done so much in helping him and Allan-a-Dale rescue Will Scarlet’s daughter from her enforced slavery just a few months before.

  A low growl rose in his throat as he met the scarred leader’s eyes, and without thinking, began to move towards the gang, who looked surprised but not particularly worried at the sight of a single swordsman coming at them.

  “Fan out!” the rebel captain ordered with a toothless grin, bringing his dull-looking sword up before him defensively. “Looks like we’ll have to do a bit more killing, before we can enjoy what this town has to offer.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “How long can we hold out?”

  The Hospitaller knight, Sir Richard-at-Lee, glanced over at his sergeant, Stephen, and shrugged his broad shoulders, although, clad in chain mail as he was, with the black mantle of his Order over it, the gesture was hardly noticeable. “A couple of weeks I’d say, if they don’t break the door down.”

  “Not bloody likely,” Stephen growled with a confident smile. He had good reason to feel secure inside Sir Richard’s castle in Kirklees. A small moat surrounded the site and, although it was almost empty, once the drawbridge was up, it meant the main entrance was impossible to reach without some sort of platform.

  Although they only had a dozen men with them, it was enough to hold off any attempts by the king’s men gathered outside to erect such a platform before having to batter the main gate down with a ram.

  The two men – hardened veterans from countless battles in their Order's service – looked down from the battlements at the men besieging them. Twenty part-time soldiers, at most, led by some minor royalist noble Sir Richard didn’t recognise. They had turned up a day after the Hospitaller had led what remained of his followers from the defeat at the battle of Boroughbridge back home.

  Such a small force had no chance of either penetrating the great front door, or scaling the walls, unless the Hospitaller and his men relaxed their guard.
Which would not happen. Stephen would make damn sure of that.

  It was a stand-off and, with enough food and drink stored within the castle to last them a fortnight at least, Sir Richard felt reasonably secure.

  “The only way they’re getting in here is if the king sends more men with siege engines,” Stephen mused. “Otherwise, they’ll have to starve us out.”

  “I can’t see them hanging around out there for a couple of weeks,” Sir Richard grunted, stroking his bushy grey beard thoughtfully. “Those men will have to return to their own villages. Besides, there must be easier targets for them to hunt scattered throughout Barnsdale forest.”

  “Like Robin Hood and his mates, assuming any of them survived the battle,” his sergeant-at-arms replied. “They’re going to have a hard time of it for a while with all these bastards chasing around the forest after rebels.”

  “Robin and his men know how to hide. They’ll be fine. Christ knows what’ll happen to us though.” The Hospitaller sighed, feeling lower than he’d ever felt in his life. Not only was he a wanted man – a rebel – but his son had been murdered by someone acting for Sir Hugh Despenser not that long ago.

  As Sir Richard stared out disconsolately over the spring countryside, the nobleman leading the king’s men rode boldly forward, halting as he came close enough to converse with the big knight on the battlements without shouting at the top of his voice.

  “Oh-ho!” Stephen nodded. “The king’s lackey wants a word.”

  One of their men stationed on the battlements beside them fitted the string to his longbow and pulled an arrow from his belt. “You want me to take him down, my lord?”

  “What?” Sir Richard, startled from his reverie, waved a hand. “No, Peter. Let the man say his piece.”

  The horseman gazed up at them. “My name is Sir Philip of Portsmouth. I assume you are Sir Richard-at-Lee, former Lord of Kirklees.”