He would fight to hold onto it, rather than running with his tail between his legs.
“This is my mess,” he clasped his faithful sergeant by the arm, fixing him with his steady gaze. “If you want to go, I’ll release you from my service” –
“That’s enough of that shit,” Stephen had growled, cutting off his master with an angry gesture. “I’ve stuck by you for years. I’ve no more intention of buggering off back to Rhodes than you have. What do you want me to do?”
Sir Richard had written a letter and, dripping wax from a ruby-red candle onto the envelope, pressed his ring into it to mark it with his own personal Hospitaller seal, showing a man kneeling before a cross. He handed it to Stephen with instructions to take it straight to Clerkenwell, in London.
The Prior of the Hospitallers in England, Thomas L’Archer, had his headquarters in Clerkenwell. Although Sir Richard thought the prior had become an incompetent fool in his old age, he was still the most powerful Hospitaller in the country, with direct access to the king.
With the dissolution of the Templars just a few years earlier, the Hospitallers had grown greatly in power and influence. If anyone could help Sir Richard, it was Thomas L’Archer.
So, as dawn broke, Stephen had taken his master’s letter, filled his horse’s saddlebags with food and drink and the two old companions embraced one another as brothers rather than a master and his servant.
“It’ll take me six, maybe seven days to reach Clerkenwell,” Stephen had cautioned. “A round-trip of” –
“I know, I know,” Sir Richard had nodded with a small smile. “Two weeks without you to look after me. It’ll be hard, but I’ll manage somehow.”
“Aye, you can bloody laugh,” Stephen retorted dourly. “Just watch yourself. There’s probably a bounty for you. We’re lucky the villagers like you, or they’d have handed you over to the law already, but that won’t stop outsiders.”
Richard waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about me – no one’s coming over these walls uninvited. And, as you say, the villagers like me. I’ve always tried to do right by them. Travel as swiftly as you can though,” he gazed at his sergeant earnestly. “Eventually someone will come and try to force their way in. And I can’t sit here, cooped up like a falcon in its cage for ever.”
The drawbridge was lowered, groaning loudly as the chains rotated on their axles, and, with a last grim nod, Stephen had kicked his mount forward and headed for the capital.
The Hospitaller sergeant was a hard soldier, who had spent much of his life fighting in wars. Not much frightened him: he had seen men, some of them his friends, butchered and mutilated beside him. He had decapitated, disembowelled and dismembered countless men in the name of Christ.
And yet, the thought of addressing the superiors of his order made him sick with nerves. It was so ridiculous he almost laughed.
He crouched down low against his palfrey as the rain hammered against his back and kicked the beast into a canter, hoping to cover as much distance as possible before the light failed and he had to make camp for the night.
His actions over the next few weeks would decide his fate and the fate of Sir Richard-at-Lee.
A sudden, massive rumble of thunder boomed overhead, making his horse skitter sideways nervously, its eyes bulging and he patted the beast reassuringly.
Two weeks for a gruff, uncouth sergeant-at-arms to travel to Clerkenwell and persuade a senile old prior to intervene with the king on his master’s behalf.
Thunder cracked the sky overhead again and Stephen shook his head dismally at the impossible mission.
“We’re fucking doomed.”
* * *
“Logs? You want us to ride fucking logs down the river?” Will Scarlet burst out laughing at his young leader’s suggestion.
“Aye!” Robin grinned at the rest of the outlaws as they walked through the forest. “We find a few logs, lash them together with this” – he patted a coiled length of rope he and some of the other men carried on their packs – “then split up. Some of us take these rebels from the west and some from the logs. You say there's a second tributary behind them. They won’t expect anyone to attack them from there.”
“So they’re all going to stand watching us in front of them when we turn up through the trees shouting a challenge,” Little John shook his head with a smile. “While some of us sail down the river at their backs and shoot them.”
Scarlet laughed again, the type of laugh that was so genuine and uninhibited it was infectious, and many of the other men joined in with him.
“I don’t see why it wouldn’t work, though,” Friar Tuck shrugged, wiping his shaved crown, sweating despite the chill air. “I’m not sailing on any half-arsed raft though, I’ll stick to dry land.”
“I’ll go on the raft,” Much volunteered. “My da used to take me fishing in a little boat on the Calder when I was younger.” His face dropped at the thought of his father, murdered in front of him, in their own mill, less than a year ago. “I like the water,” he finished quietly.
“I’ll go on it an’ all,” an older outlaw, Peter Ordevill agreed. “I used to be a sailor and it sounds like the safest place to be in this mad plan.”
Another older outlaw, James Baxter offered to take a place on the raft too as Robin nodded.
“All right, you three it is: we’re going to need skilled archers on the water, to take out as many of the bastards as possible. The river’s not flowing that fast just now, but even so, you won’t have much time to get your shots off before you’ll be past.”
“And then we’re three men down,” Matt Groves grunted. “By the time those three get off this raft of yours, the fight’ll be over, one way or the other, and we’re outnumbered as it is, if they’ve really got twenty-odd men at this camp.”
“Aye, but if Much and the others manage to take out even four or five of these rebels,” Robin replied patiently, “it’ll throw them into chaos. They won’t know which way to turn.”
“What if they don’t take out four or five of them?” Gareth, the thin teenager from Wrangbrook wondered. “It’ll be hard to aim from the water won’t it?”
“Nah,” Much shook his head. “The river will be calm. It shouldn’t be much different from shooting the longbow at a moving target on land, as long as we have something to brace ourselves against.”
They were nearing the rebel base now, as the sound of roaring water came to them, so they made sure to go well around the spot where Will expected the camp to be, and started to make their way upriver to find suitable logs for the raft.
“Will,” Robin waved his friend over. “You go and scout out these rebels. Make sure they’re really there. Try and see how many of them there are, weapons, armour and kill any lookouts” –
“I know what I’m looking for,” Will broke in, raising an eyebrow indignantly. “I’ve been doing this for a lot longer than you, lad.”
“Sorry,” Robin smiled sheepishly. “We’ll find the wood we need for the rafts while you’re gone.”
As Will disappeared into the undergrowth, surprisingly nimble for such a sturdy man, the rest of the outlaws walked on for a while then began to hunt for thick branches. They found plenty, torn from the trees in the previous winter’s storms, and chose ones as flat as possible to make a smooth platform which Much, Peter and James could shoot from. A couple of men carried axes as their close-combat weapon of choice, rather than swords or maces, and they quickly cut the wood to similar lengths.
“Won’t the rebels come and see what all the thumping is?” Much asked Robin as the fallen branches swiftly turned into somewhat similarly sized logs.
“Why would they?” his boyhood friend replied. “For a start they’ve made their camp beside a noisy waterfall, so they’ll hardly hear this noise so far upriver. And even if they do hear it, so what? Why should they think it’s a threat to them?”
Peter, the former sailor, proved to be an expert with ropes and knots and managed to lash the branche
s together, forming an odd-looking craft that would, hopefully, work.
“That abomination is never going to float,” Matt Groves sniggered. “If one of you farts it’ll sink. This is fucking madness.”
“No it won’t,” Peter retorted, confident the hastily- built raft would float just fine on a calm and relatively sluggish river. He had directed the axe-men as they quickly cut the wood to form a flat base, a rudder and a tiller which he would be able to tie off, holding the “boat” on a relatively straight course for long enough to shoot their bows at the rebels. “It’s big enough to stay steady while the three of us get off a few shots. That’s all we need.”
“Aye, well, you’re welcome to it lads,” Groves smirked. “I’d rather have my feet on something sturdier.”
Will Scarlet reappeared, blowing slightly, but smiling wickedly.
“They’re there all right,” he reported, sitting down on a boulder to catch his breath. He gave the raft an approving grin and took a couple of sips from the ale skin at his waist before continuing. “I counted seventeen of them – some of them must be off at some village looking for supplies. Probably because we” – he nodded towards Tuck and Robin – “disturbed them yesterday, before they could take what they needed from Hathersage.”
“Shit,” Robin murmured, hoping the five missing rebels hadn’t decided to head for Wakefield to find what they needed.
Little John could see his young captain was worried, and he clapped him gently on the back with a grin. “Don’t worry – this won’t take long. The numbers are almost even now.”
“Terrain?” Robin wondered.
“As I described it to you before,” Will replied. “They’re camped right beside the river, which is to their east. To their north is a rock wall, which the waterfall comes down. It’s not that all that high, but none of the rebels will be climbing up it once we attack; it’s too steep for that. The lads here can get the raft around to the tributary if they head north-west for a short way and double back. West and south of the rebels it's all trees and bushes. It’s a good hiding place to be honest – if that son of a whore in Hathersage hadn’t told us where they were we’d never have found them.”
“Sounds simple enough, then,” Allan-a-Dale grunted, making sure his string was in its pouch ready to fit to his longbow.
“Aye, but take care, though,” Will raised a cautionary hand as he took another swig from his ale skin, slowly catching his breath. “These aren’t peasants like the ones we found butchered the other day. These men are all wearing light, and even pieces of heavy, armour. And, from what I saw, they all have good quality weapons. There’s no pitchforks – it’s all swords, maces and proper battle-axes.”
Robin looked over at Much and the other two outlaws making ready to carry the raft round to the tributary on the other side of the rebels' camp. “You’ll have to pick your targets well,” he told them. “Leave the ones with the heavier armour, in case your arrows can’t penetrate. Your shots might not have the same force they normally do shooting from this thing,” he kicked at the hastily lashed together logs.
“Don’t worry,” Much nodded confidently, grasping his friend's hand with a grin. “We’ll take out as many of them as possible.”
“All right!” Robin shouted, looking around at his men with a determined gaze. “Let’s get this thing into the water and make those bastards pay for killing Wilfred and God knows what else!”
The raft was sturdy, but light enough to be carried off to the north-west by Much, Peter and James without much trouble.
“Give us enough time to get into position back downstream,” Robin told Much as the three men moved away with their burden. “Then cast off. We’ll post a lookout to watch for you coming and distract the rebels just before you arrive at their backs.”
“Good luck,” Much smiled.
“You too. Try not to shoot any of our own lads...” Robin grinned back with a wave as he led the rest of the outlaws back through the foliage to the rebels’ camp.
The waterfall grew louder the closer they came, and Robin took Will, Tuck and Little John aside.
“Me, John and Tuck will take the west side of their camp with half the men,” he decided.
Tuck was no archer, so would be wasted in Will’s section, while John, at almost seven feet tall, was so physically intimidating Robin always felt it was good to have him in open view.
“When we show ourselves to the rebels I’ll talk to the leader and distract them,” he said. “We’ll set Gareth as lookout to signal us when he sees Much and the raft coming.”
Gareth was a young lad from Wrangbrook, too thin to be an archer, or much of a fighter, but smart enough to be useful in other ways. Most of the outlaws looked on him as their little brother.
“You take some of the men to the south,” Robin went on, looking at Will, “and when you see the signal, start shooting. Get as many of the bastards as you can before they know what's happening.”
The more he thought it over, the more Scarlet liked Robin’s mad plan. With his half of the remaining outlaws shooting at the scum that had killed his old friend Wilfred, and the three on the raft shooting at them as well, they should be able to take out at least ten or eleven of the seventeen rebels before they even knew what had happened.
Then Robin, John, Tuck and the rest of the men would engage them from the front and the fight would be over. It was devastatingly simple. Foolproof!
“For such a young lad,” Will smiled, playfully slapping Robin on the back of the head, “you’ve got an old soldier’s brain in there.”
“Aye, it’s a good plan,” John agreed as they came near to the rebels’ camp-site.
Will picked the five best archers from the remaining outlaws, including Matt Groves, and took them off to take up position to the south, while Robin gave Gareth his orders and sent him to the top of the waterfall with a strip of white linen from Tuck’s medical pouch to wave when he spotted Much and the raft nearing their position.
As they waited, the image of the rebel peasants they had found killed that morning played on Robin’s mind.
“Who is this Guy of Gisbourne?” he wondered. “The sheriff must think he’s got the skills to catch us.”
Little John and even Tuck, who had travelled extensively over the years, had never heard of Gisbourne until a few months earlier, when he had turned up leading the Sheriff of Nottingham and Yorkshire’s men on sorties into Barnsdale. Still, none of the outlaws had even seen the man the locals had dubbed ‘The Raven’.
“There!” Allan-a-Dale hissed, as young Gareth suddenly appeared on the waterfall above them, waving his long strip of bandage. “The raft’s coming – time to move!”
Robin gestured to his men and they drew their swords, moving forward through the foliage towards the rebel camp which was only a few yards away.
“Do you think Gisbourne really dresses all in black?” Robin asked, shoving branches out of his way and making sure he stepped quietly from force of habit, although a cracking twig would go unnoticed with the raging waterfall so close.
“I hope he does,” John growled from just behind. “Black will show up easy amongst the green leaves of the forest – we’ll see him coming from a mile off.”
Robin nodded silent agreement, then gasped in shock as half a dozen figures appeared, like wraiths, through the undergrowth to his left.
The roaring waterfall had masked the sounds of their approach, and, as he brought his sword up instinctively before him, his eyes were drawn to the man leading them.
A tall, slim man, dressed all in black.
The outlaws recognised him straight away.
“Gisbourne!”
CHAPTER SIX
“I wondered who that fool beside the waterfall was waving at,” Sir Guy of Gisbourne smiled, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword as his eyes flickered across the armed men in front of him, assessing the situation.
The outlaws stood, frozen to the spot, looking to Robin for guidance.
“You obviously know my name,” the black-clad bounty-hunter noted. “How about you give me yours?”
Robin’s mind whirled. Gisbourne had a lot of men with him – maybe twenty, or even more; it was hard to tell given the density of the undergrowth here. He knew he had to act fast though, or the soldiers would encircle them.
Clearly their attack on the rebel’s camp would have to wait for another time, assuming they somehow escaped from this with their lives, which didn’t seem at all assured.
“No matter,” Sir Guy shrugged, drawing his sword. “It’s clear you are wolf’s heads or rebels of some sort or another and, since I’m in Yorkshire specifically to clear your sort from the forest…” he waved his left hand in the air and pointed to Robin and the outlaws, opening his mouth again to issue the command to attack.
“We’re bounty-hunters!” Robin shouted. “We’re here to wipe out a gang of rebels who are hiding out beside the river, there.” He nodded towards the river behind Gisbourne, who had halted his order to attack, and stood looking slightly confused. “Our man up there is signalling us to attack, we have more men coming down the river on a raft – we have to move now, or we’ll miss the chance to surprise the rebels!”
It was possible these men were hunting rebels, as Gisbourne was. The king had employed many such man-hunters to clear out the Earl of Lancaster’s supporters from Barnsdale and its environs. As he stood gazing at the young man he heard, sure enough, men’s voices, raised in laughter, loud enough to be heard over the waterfall not far from there.
“I see,” Gisbourne replied smoothly, a dark eyebrow raised questioningly. “Well, let us help you then. Lead the way to this rebel camp and we’ll destroy them together.”
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