The Wolf and the Raven

by Steven A McKay

  As if he hadn’t a care in the world, Sir Richard appeared, whistling gently to himself, and Edmond smiled, the blood coursing through his veins in nervous anticipation.

  “Stop!” Walter, small and short of limb as he was, had an imposing glare at times, as if he might go completely, and violently, crazy. He brandished his sword at the stunned knight, who, for a moment wasn’t sure how to react.

  “Aye!” Edmond slipped out from behind the beech and pressed his sword against Sir Richard’s back. “Stop.”

  The Hospitaller vaguely recognized the small man in front of him from the village. The tanner’s son: a nice lad, if a little touched. “What do you men want?” he demanded. “You realize I could cut you both down in seconds if I choose?”

  Walter looked nervously over his shoulder, as if he wanted to run away, but Edmond confidently pressed the point of his blade harder into the gambeson Sir Richard wore.

  “Shut up. One move and I gut you like were planning on doing to those rabbits at your belt.”

  As he finished speaking, Edmond was surprised to find himself on the grass, his nose bloody and the point of a sword at his throat.

  The Hospitaller had moved with incredible speed, drawing his blade as he spun through one hundred and eighty degrees and hammering the pommel into Edmond’s face before the young villager could react. Edmond had under-estimated the knight, and yet, the knight had under-estimated Walter.

  The little man had reacted instantly as he saw the attack on his beloved big brother, rushing forward and swinging his blade with terrible force at the veteran Crusader.

  Sir Richard saw the attack just in time. He brought his own sword up, pushing Walter’s weapon to the side and, instinctively, reversed his swing and dragged the blade across the inside of the man’s thigh.

  A killing cut.

  It severed the artery, and as blood bubbled from the wound Walter collapsed on the grass in shock, staring at his brother, too surprised to even try to hold the wound shut.

  Sir Richard watched the lad fall, horrified, as, unbidden, the memory of his own son’s killing less than a year earlier flashed through his mind.

  Then there was a scream – a scream of anguish like he’d never heard before, and the world went black.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Wake up, you bastard!”

  Sir Richard felt as if he was drowning, somehow trapped underwater, and his mind tried desperately to reach the surface again.

  “Get up!”

  He heard the voice again, clearer now, and he felt his arm being kicked roughly but he was too dazed to react.

  As his eyes opened, he saw Edmond glaring down at him, his grubby face tracked with white streaks where tears had wiped away some of the grime.

  The young man bent down and tried to haul the Hospitaller to his feet, but Sir Richard was too heavy, and, with an anguished sob, Edmond let him drop, aiming a half-hearted kick at his arm again, before sitting on the grass himself.

  “You killed Walter.”

  The young man was staring straight ahead, seeing nothing, and Sir Richard knew he should strike the boy down while he had the chance, but he was too weak. The back of his head ached, and he realised Edmond must have given him a lump the size of an egg with the pommel of that cheap sword. He was lucky if his skull wasn’t cracked.

  Groaning, Sir Richard rolled onto all-fours and tried to sit up, retching as his fingers gently probed the back of his aching head. “You and your brother were taking me to my death – can you blame me for defending myself?”

  Edmond didn’t reply as his eyes turned to look at his brother’s corpse which lay in patch of crimson grass and shook his head mournfully.

  Sir Richard’s fingers flexed tentatively as he noticed Edmond hadn’t disarmed him – his sword lay beside him, within easy reach.

  The younger man noticed the Hospitaller’s body language and jumped back to his feet with a snarl, pointing his blade at Sir Richard’s face. “Get up you old bastard, get up! You won’t get away with murdering my little brother – I’m taking you to Sir Philip. I’m going to watch you hang!”

  As Sir Richard shakily rose to his feet Edmond moved in and lifted the finely crafted Hospitaller sword, tossing his own inferior weapon into the bushes. He hefted the expensive weapon appreciatively, and placed it against the knight’s cheek.

  “I know you have a dagger about you somewhere – give me it.”

  Knowing it was pointless to deny the presence of his second blade, Sir Richard slowly removed the short dagger from the leather sheath on his belt and handed it to the volatile bounty-hunter who tucked it into the frayed old rope he wore as a belt himself.

  “Right. Move.”

  Edmond gestured with his sword, east, in the direction of Pontefract, and Sir Richard groggily moved forward.

  The younger man’s eyes fixed again on the body of his brother and it was clear he didn’t really know what to do. Should he leave Walter lying here, where foxes and crows would come to tear the eyeballs and flesh to pieces? What about the last rites?

  With another tortured sob, Edmond punched Sir Richard in the small of the back, shouting at him to move as the old knight staggered forward in pain. There was nothing else to do – they couldn’t bury Walter and there was no way to carry him.

  “Get on with you, Hospitaller! I’ll see you to Pontefract, then come back to take care of Walter.” His voice broke as he finished and he kicked Sir Richard in the backside angrily.

  They moved along the overgrown trail in silence, the knight slowly coming back to full consciousness, knowing his grieving captor would, eventually, let his guard down.

  And then Sir Richard would get away. Because Edmond didn’t know about the other little dagger concealed in his boot.

  * * *

  “He’s awake!”

  When he saw Friar Tuck’s eyes flutter open, the grin on Little John’s face was so wide it threatened to swallow his beard.

  “Tuck’s awake!” he shouted again as the rest of the men ran over to join him.

  The friar groaned weakly as he tried to focus on the figures around him. “Gisbourne shot me,” he muttered. “Then I drowned. I must have died twice…If this is heaven, there’s a hell of a lot of ugly men up here.”

  The outlaws bellowed with laughter at the joke, not because it was very funny, but because they were all relieved and overjoyed to see the cheery clergyman back in the land of the living.

  “What happened?” Tuck asked, as John knelt beside him.

  “You’re right, Gisbourne shot you and you fell in the River Don. But Gareth here jumped in and hauled you out. He’s a hero!” John grabbed the young man by the arm and pulled him down beside them.

  “Really? A skinny lad like you managed to pull a fat friar like me out of that?”

  Gareth nodded, embarrassed again by the attention. “Not so fat now though, Tuck,” he replied, eyeing the clergyman’s shrunken waistline. “You’ve been unconscious for a few days.”

  Tuck nodded slightly. “I feel as weak as a newborn babe.”

  “Here.” Allan-a-Dale hurried over carrying a bowl of venison stew, as John and Gareth helped Tuck sit up. Allan lifted the bowl to the friar’s lips, feeding him small sips while John finished the story of his rescue and miraculous recovery.

  “Praise be to St Peter,” he whispered, closing his eyes with exhaustion as Allan wiped spilled stew from his face like a wet-nurse. “May I see this relic of his?”

  “It’s right here,” John nodded, lifting the ornate little reliquary from the ground where he’d placed it as Tuck sat up to eat. “Been sitting on your chest for a while now. Looks like it works, just as Father Nicholas said it would.”

  As the giant outlaw lifted the box for Tuck to see, the friar’s eyes narrowed for a moment as he studied the meticulous carvings and obviously superior workmanship.

  “Christ our Lord,” he breathed, and the men grunted agreement.

  “Give it to me,” Tuck gasped, opening
his palm, his eyes fixed on the reliquary.

  “Fancy eh?” Will grinned as Little John placed the box onto Tuck’s hand. “Shame none of us could figure out how it opens” –

  Scarlet stopped, open-mouthed, as the friar moved his fingers and the reliquary sprung open.

  “Here, that’s not St Peter’s finger!” Will exclaimed.

  “No, it’s not,” Tuck agreed, still staring at the relic. “It’s hairs from Our Lord Christ’s beard. I don’t know how it ended up in Brandesburton, but this little box is the reason I’m an outlaw!”

  * * *

  “We’re going to hang you, wolf’s head.”

  Robin glared at Gisbourne’s sergeant, Nicholas Barnwell, as the man threw him a malevolent gap-toothed grin. “Ever seen someone hang? I bet you have – you know what it does to you. You’ll shit yourself like a babe, while everyone watches.”

  Robin held his peace. They had bound his hands behind his back and he was still in shock at the death of his childhood friend. That wasn’t the only thing that kept him silent though.

  He felt ashamed to admit it, but he was frightened. Barnwell was right – he had seen men and women hanged before. It was a humiliating and often slow death, if the hangman didn’t lean on the person to ease their suffering.

  Besides that, the face of Matilda haunted him. She carried his child. His life had come to nothing, and now Gisbourne would end it like he ended Much.

  Yes, he was frightened. But he straightened his back and pushed out his chest, towering over the men leading him to the jail in Nottingham.

  Barnwell noticed and threw him another spiteful grin.

  “You won’t feel so big when we get you to the castle, boy. Sir Guy will probably use you as a sparring partner before your trial. He’ll tear you to shreds.”

  “Why don’t I spar with you right now, you ugly old bastard?” Robin finally found his voice but his captor just laughed and rode ahead to join his captain at the front of the group, leaving Robin to be dragged along by a couple of footmen.

  They didn't reach Nottingham until the next day and, when they arrived at the Cow Bar gatehouse a crowd was there to welcome them. Gisbourne had sent one of his men ahead to spread the word – the Raven had captured Robin Hood!

  The news spread like wildfire. Robin and his men were heroes to the common people who hoped this rumour proved to be false. Hundreds of them had gathered at the gates, held back by the guardsmen who threw angry glances at Gisbourne as he rode into the city like a conquering hero, oblivious to the trouble that might arise from this.

  Sir Henry de Faucumberg appeared, with a couple of dozen guards to the relief of the gatemen, although, if things really turned ugly they were still badly outnumbered. The sheriff nodded to Gisbourne as his party made their way into the city, but de Faucumberg walked past and entered the gatehouse, appearing moments later on the battlements, looking down on the gathered throng.

  “People of Nottingham,” he cried. “Hear me!”

  His voice was mostly lost in the clamour, but some folk noticed the sheriff and pointed him out to those around them, until, eventually, an uneasy silence descended and the people waited to hear what he had to say.

  “For months now, the forests around our city have been plagued by outlaws. By wolf’s heads who rob, rape and murder innocent travellers – even men of God!” He hurried on before anyone could shout a smart reply. “Now, my men have captured the leader of those vicious felons – Robin Hood! Not only an outlaw, but a rebel as well: the King himself demanded I bring him to justice. And now…I have!”

  He raised his hands in triumph, and the city guardsmen cheered half-heartedly. Gisbourne was furious at the sheriff taking the credit for capturing Hood, and he vowed to have words with de Faucumberg later on. For now though, as the crowd stood watching their sheriff to see if he would say anything else, Gisbourne waved his men on, towards the castle, moving to drag Robin along in their wake.

  “Sir Guy!” the sheriff shouted down, beckoning the furious king's man to climb the stairs. “Bring the wolf's head up here, so the people can see him!”

  The sight of the walls made Robin want to retch, and he felt panic welling up inside him as he was shoved inside the gatehouse and made to climb the stairs. He was used to the freedom of the greenwood – the thought of being encased in a gloomy stone prison, surrounded by walls like these – was almost too much for him to bear.

  As they came up onto the battlements Barnwell saw Robin’s hunted expression and read his thoughts. He caught the young man’s eye and, with another malicious smile nodded a little way to the north, on the road to York.

  Robin tried to spit at Gisbourne’s grinning lackey, but his throat was dry and what little spittle he could produce dribbled embarrassingly down his own chin as he followed the man’s gaze.

  His stomach lurched and his tired legs almost gave way when he saw what Barnwell was looking at.

  On a hill, dominating the skyline, stood an enormous wooden frame almost four metres tall. Two corpses could just be seen, hanging suspended from the sinister construction while tiny black specks – crows no doubt – wheeled in the sky overhead, taking turns to fly down and peck at the eyes and soft flesh of the dead felons. The sight of the structure was all the more ominous surrounded as it was by gently rolling fields and a couple of picturesque windmills.

  The gallows.

  “Take a good look, wolf's head,” Barnwell grinned. “There lies your doom.”

  * * *

  He was half-dragged, half-led down to the dungeon by a couple of the sheriff’s men. Robin felt claustrophobic cooped up within the cold stone walls which grew even colder as they moved underground.

  Criminals stared out at them through thick iron gates. Some shrank back as the guard’s torch lit the gloom; others proclaimed their innocence, begging to be released. Robin’s felt his heart wrench as one pitiful man sobbed unashamedly, asking to see his family again before he was hanged the next day.

  The guards ignored the cries, leading the tired outlaw to his own cell which lay at the far end of the corridor. As he was shoved in, one of them battered the back of his head with his pole-arm. “That’s for the good soldiers you and your mates have killed in Barnsdale, you piece of filth. Some of them were my friends.”

  Robin dropped to his knees, clutching his skull in agony as the gate was pulled shut and locked with a loud, final click. The guards left, taking the torch with them, and bolting the massive oak door at the end of the corridor at their backs, and complete darkness filled the freezing dungeon.

  Stumbling into a corner, Robin sat with his back against the wall, his eyes trying unsuccessfully to adjust to the inky blackness, as the other prisoners cried out in anger, fear or madness.

  His eyes welled up, but he angrily wiped them, not giving in to the self-pity that threatened to overwhelm him and he remembered Tuck's words from not so long ago: “Never give up hope!”

  He clenched his fists and forced a smile into the oppressive darkness. It would take more than this to break Robin Hood.

  It might have been minutes later, it might have been hours, Robin couldn’t tell, but the door at the far end of the corridor creaked open and the dim orange glow from a smoky torch made its way along until it was outside his cell.

  The outlaw stared at Gisbourne’s sergeant, who had his usual wicked smile on his scarred face.

  “Get up, Hood. Sir Guy feels like a little sparring practice before he has his supper.”

  Slowly, knowing he had no choice, Robin stood up and walked to the cell gate which was unlocked by the same guard who had battered his head earlier. “Supper eh? What are we having?”

  Barnwell roared with laughter at that. “Good lad! Let’s go then.”

  They made their way back up to the courtyard of the castle, where the captor drank in the fresh air and the early evening sunshine. He’d only been in his cell for a short time; he wondered how he would feel seeing the sky again if he was locked up for even longer
next time.

  “Ah, the famous wolf’s head himself!”

  Gisbourne stood, stripped to the waist despite the cold, his slim, yet wiry body heaving from exertion. He had been practising his combat moves, watched from a large open window by some of the giggling women of the castle.

  “I’ve heard all sorts of stories about you, boy,” Gisbourne said, lifting a pair of wooden swords and throwing one to Robin which he failed to catch. His face burned as the girls above laughed mockingly and he stooped to retrieve the weapon.

  “They say you can fight three men at the same time and kill them all without breaking a sweat. They say you defeated a Templar and cut off his manhood. They say” – he fixed Robin with a piercing gaze and took up a defensive posture – “that you can’t be beaten.”

  Robin smiled, spreading his hands wide. “The people exaggerate. How about a wager though – if I beat you, I go free?”

  Gisbourne spat on the hard ground, angry at the outlaw's apparent self-confidence. “You won't beat me. Now...let’s see for ourselves how well you fight.”

  Barnwell and the guardsman moved away, and Robin flexed his muscles which were stiff from his incarceration. The back of his head still ached – there was a lump the size of half a pigeon’s egg there now – and he felt exhausted. Drained by Much’s murder and his capture.

  Gisbourne could see all this reflected in his young opponent’s blue eyes now, and he darted forward aiming a blow at Robin’s shoulder.

  Instinctively, the outlaw brought up his own wooden sword and, with a crack that echoed around the stone walls surrounding the courtyard, the two blades met.

  Gisbourne grinned and hooked his foot behind Robin’s, dragging the younger man’s leg out from under him.

  The women screamed in delight as he crashed to the floor, the breath knocked out of him, and Gisbourne danced back gracefully.

  “Get up, scum!” One of the women was louder than the rest, and her eyes flashed in delight at the promise of more violence.