A memory suddenly flared in Sir Richard's head. “Aren't you married? I'm sure I remember your father telling me his son was betrothed. He was very proud – as a father should be.” His voice trailed off as he thought of his own son, killed before he could find a woman to share his life with.
“She died,” Edmond snarled, his thick lips spraying saliva before him. “Same as my da!”
No wonder the man's so angry, Sir Richard thought, holding his peace for now. He and his brother bullied for years, his wife dead, his parents dead, and now I've killed his only surviving kin...Christ above, he prayed, help me!
As he mouthed his silent supplication, the weight of everything that had befallen him in recent months came down on his old shoulders and the Hospitaller knew what he had to do.
He stopped in his tracks and Edmond stopped too, leaning back into a defensive stance, the knight's sword held before him.
“Why are you stopping? Move on! Sir Philip never said I had to take you to him in one piece.”
Richard raised a hand. “Calm down, lad. You can relax.” He clasped his hands and gazed at his captor. “I'll travel with you to Pontefract Castle. I give you my word as a Knight of St. John, I won't try to escape. Whatever happens, I will allow you to take me, as your prisoner, to Sir Philip.”
Edmond's eyes flickered from side to side warily, half-expecting men to burst from the trees to aid the Hospitaller. Surely this was some trick.
“Why?”
Sir Richard sighed, his bearded face falling, and suddenly Edmond noticed just how old the man was.
“My wife and my youngest son are dead. The king himself wants me hanged. I'm a disgraced rebel who's spent the last few weeks hiding like a frightened woman in a lonely castle.” He smiled ruefully at his captor. “I have my eldest son – Edward – but he has his own life, far away in Rhodes...God has allowed me to fall into your hands, so...I will go to Pontefract with you, freely. You may sleep – or relieve yourself – when you must, without fearing I'll kill you or sneak off.”
From the wary, and somewhat frightened expression on Edmond's face, it was obvious the young man had no idea what to make of this.
In truth, Sir Richard felt desperately sorry for the man. And guilty for taking his one sibling and friend from him. If he'd analyzed his own motives more honestly, the knight might not have made his promise to the tanner's son. But it seemed to him like this was a thing he could do to make Edmond's life better. He knew he couldn't hide out forever in Kirklees Castle – it would drive him mad before much longer, which was why he'd even been out in the open in the first place.
“I have your oath on this, Hospitaller? You're almost a priest right? Your oath, before Christ, has to be binding!”
Sir Richard nodded. “You have my oath.”
“Thank God,” Edmond grunted, dropping the sword onto the grass and pulling his breeches down about his thick thighs. “I've been desperate for a piss for ages.”
The young villager continued to eye him suspiciously, warm urine splattering and steaming on the grass, and Sir Richard turned away, looking thoughtfully into the dense trees.
It felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He would go to Pontefract with Edmond. The young man would be well rewarded by Sir Philip, and be able to go back to Kirklees with a tale that would finally earn him the respect from the villagers that he so desperately craved.
Would the king hang him? Yes, Sir Richard knew he would. It would give Edward the perfect excuse to seize Kirklees – Hospitaller lands – permanently.
As Edmond pulled his trousers back up with a satisfied grunt, and stooped to retrieve the dropped sword, Sir Richard moved off along the overgrown trail again, casting another prayer skyward.
Lord, I place myself at your mercy. But it would be nice if my sergeant-at-arms turned up in time to save me from a humiliating death on the gallows!
* * *
When he finally made it to London Stephen was exhausted. He had pushed his body to the limit trying to make up for lost time and the fact he was now on foot. As he passed through Enfield he was able to buy a tired old palfrey, but by then he was close to collapse from the physical and mental pressure he had placed himself under.
When the Moorgate of London came into view he could have cried out in relief if he had the strength, but his elation soon left him as his eyes took in the sight of hundreds of people queueing to get into the city.
Making sure his shield was easily visible and the cross prominently displayed on his black surcoat, he led the palfrey off the road onto the verge and kicked it into a canter, racing past the patiently waiting queue. Most people, quickly spotting the Hospitaller livery and his arms and armour, kept their mouths shut, although one or two braver than the rest cursed him for skipping the line.
Stephen never even heard them, tired and focused as he was on entering the city at last. The crowd was a blur until he came closer to the gates and reined in his mount, roaring at the top of his voice for people to move and let him through.
Not everyone was quick to obey, and Stephen knew he was courting disaster as he rode the old horse directly into the queue of people, scattering them.
“Stand aside!” he shouted, trying to summon his most powerful parade-ground voice from protesting lungs. “Hospitaller on official business!”
Three men, wealthy merchants judging from their clothes and haughty manner, stood their ground, glaring at the sergeant-at-arms bearing down on them, but Stephen was in no mood to slow his progress now.
“Get out of the way you arseholes or I'll ride you into the ground!” To emphasise the point he pulled his sword free from its sheath and held it above his head.
The merchants, realising the crazed soldier wasn't slowing, scattered to the side of the road shouting curses at his back as he rode past them up to the gate.
The guards, used to seeing things like this all the time, stopped the Hospitaller to ask his business but quickly waved him on his way. Sometimes they would be rewarded with a coin or two when they fast-tracked someone in a hurry, but Stephen offered nothing. Despite that, the guards were glad to send the wild-eyed sergeant on his way before he caused any trouble.
He had a vague idea of where the Hospitaller headquarters were situated but it was a few years since he had last visited and his memory wasn't very clear. Stopping for a moment, he asked for directions and walked his horse through the streets in the direction indicated by the eager locals hoping – fruitlessly – for a small reward from the soldier.
It felt like an age before he finally reached the grand stone building that housed the Grand Prior of England's chapter of The Order of St John, and when he saw it, he felt his stomach lurch anxiously.
He shook his head with a rueful grin. He'd almost been killed numerous times in pitched battles with the Saracen, where it felt like hell had come to Earth and yet the thought of facing Prior L'Archer and possibly failing his master Sir Richard frightened him more than any fight he'd had since he was a raw young recruit.
Almost oblivious to the sights, smells and sounds around him, Stephen slowly dismounted, the muscles in his legs screaming in pain, and led his palfrey through the imposing archway that led into Clerkenwell Priory.
He was finally here, and, praise be to God, he still had Sir Richard's letter to the Grand Prior.
Let me be in time to help my master, Lord!
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
At last, panting and stinking, Will reached the top of the wall. The wooden bench that people sat on to relieve themselves pushed out of the way easily enough and the filthy outlaw scrambled into the room as quickly as possible.
Divesting himself of Tuck's sodden robe and feeling much cleaner for it, he hid the wet garment under the bench which he shoved back into position, then moved to the door, opening it a crack to make sure no one was around.
The corridor appeared to be empty, and as his eyes adjusted to the flickering light he took in the layout of the place. Closed doors led to w
hat he supposed must be bedrooms, and a flight of stairs led up and down just outside of where he stood.
He crept down the stairway, hand on his sword hilt and shook his head. This was madness! He had no idea how to get to the dungeon, and chances were he'd be found if he just wandered about the place, but he didn't see what else he could do.
He reached another landing, on the ground floor he guessed, where the sound of the party was louder, but the steps stopped here so he slowly made his way along the corridor, praying no one was about. Again, closed doors led off to God-knew where and, thinking it wise to have a hiding place should someone appear, he listened at the first one he came to. It was impossible to know if anyone was inside over the noise of the feast which was obviously close-by.
Drawing his sword, he gritted his teeth and tried the handle. The heavy door opened easily and he moved inside, eyes flickering from side to side seeking any threats.
The place was empty and appeared to be a storeroom for bed clothes, curtains and other soft furnishings which were folded neatly or hung on rails. The fresh smell of lavender filled the air and the outlaw wished he could sleep on sheets like these every night. Exhaling softly, he decided to wait for a short time, to see if anyone would come past that might be able to lead him to the dungeon.
Leaving the door open a crack, he watched the corridor. Revellers passed every so often, obviously making their way to the latrine, or, in some cases, couples looking for somewhere private to get to know each other better. Thankfully they all continued along the corridor and up the stairwell – Will had no desire to kill innocent civilians should they stumble on his hiding place.
As another drunk middle-aged man stumbled past humming to himself, Will cursed and decided he'd wasted enough time; the feast wasn't going to last forever, and he hadn't even found Robin yet, never mind freed him.
He began to pull the door to the storeroom open, then quickly closed it again as two stocky men wearing the sheriff's livery appeared in the hall, making their way towards him. They carried pole-arms, but appeared lightly armoured, and Scarlet's mind whirled as he wondered what to do.
Hurriedly, he pushed the door shut and hid behind one of the great curtain rails close to the door then, trying to judge when the guards would be passing the room, he made a high-pitched squeal. Not a threatening sound, or too loud to be overly obvious he hoped.
Suddenly the door was pushed open, and Will heard the men wandering into the room.
“What was it?” one of them asked. “I never heard anything.”
“Dunno,” his companion replied. “Christ above, where's that smell of shit coming from?”
The voices moved in front of Will, going further into the room, and, steeling himself as they came near, he silently pushed through the curtains and plunged the tip of his sword into the side of the guard nearest him.
The man cried out as the outlaw pulled his bloody sword free, and, as he collapsed onto the floor his companion spun round, eyes wide with shock, before Will punched him in the guts with all his strength.
The door to the room was lying open, so he ran over and pushed it shut, then made his way back to the downed guards. The one he'd stabbed was no threat – he was already dead and Will nodded, knowing his thrust had been a good one. The second man had pushed himself back to his feet despite Scarlet's heavy blow, and now aimed a wild swing at the outlaw's head with his pole-arm.
Ducking just in time, Will launched himself at the guard and the pair fell back onto a pile of bed-sheets, struggling for their lives. The man was strong and obviously well-trained in hand-to-hand combat, but Scarlet's massive upper-body strength was too much and, forcing the guard's hands down onto the sheets, the outlaw slammed his forehead into the man's nose, then, when he went limp, Scarlet leaned back and hammered another punch into the guard's stomach.
Vomit and bile filled the unfortunate man's mouth and his face turned red as he began to asphyxiate before Will pulled him onto his side, retching and spluttering as the foul liquid spilled out and his airway cleared.
Panting himself, Will sheathed his sword and drew his dagger, pressing it against the sobbing guard's neck.
“I already killed your pal,” he growled, tossing the pole-arm away into the corner. “The only reason I didn't let you choke on your own puke is that I need information.”
“Who are you?” the guard gasped. “What do you want?”
“I'm a friend of Robin Hood,” Will replied. “I'm here to take him home. And you,” he pressed the dagger against the man's neck, drawing blood, “are going to tell me how I find him.”
“Fine! I'll tell you, just take that away.”
Will released the pressure on the dagger, hopeful the man would be true to his word. He had no stomach for torture, but this guard would give him the information he wanted, one way or another.
The man lay still for a moment, trying to catch his breath, then, wiping the wet sick from his mouth and cheek, he leaned his head up from the dirty sheet and glared at Scarlet.
“I've no love for your leader – him and the rest of your gang have killed more than a few of my fellows. But I also have no love for that bastard Sir Guy of Gisbourne. He's made me spar with him twice now, and battered me black and blue both times. Sadistic, arrogant wanker he is. If you manage to free Hood, Gisbourne won't be quite the hero any more, and if you die trying, it'll fucking serve you right.”
“How do I get into the dungeon then?” Will asked impatiently.
“Here, take my surcoat,” the guard said, pulling the light blue garment with the sheriff's coat-of-arms emblazoned on the front over his head and tossing it weakly to the outlaw. “Hopefully it'll stop any of my mates challenging you. The stairs to the dungeon are at the far end of the corridor. There's a door, but Charlie on the floor there has the key. You'll have to get the key to Hood's cell from the jailer down in the dungeon though – Adam's the only person that carries the keys for the cells. Don't kill him like you did Charlie, will you?”
Will found the key on the dead man's belt and placed it in his pouch before turning back to face the guard.
“What are you going to do with me?”
Will shrugged. “I can't leave you to raise the alarm” –
“Don't kill me,” the young man mumbled. “Please. I have two little boys, Matthew and Andrew, I...please...” His voice trailed off as he pictured his children and he held his head in his hands.
“Matthew and Andrew?” Will repeated, thinking back to the man in the inn. “Are you James?”
The guard looked up in surprise. “Aye, how did you know that?”
“I had a few ales with your brother earlier on. He told us about you climbing in and out of here through the latrine – that's why I stink of shit and piss. Never mind the rest,” Will grunted, raising his hand to silence any more questions. “I don't have time. I also have no wish to kill you.”
With his dagger he tore one of the sheets into strips and used it to bind the guard's hands and feet, then used another strip to gag him.
“I expect someone will come looking for you and your mate eventually. I just hope me and Robin are gone by then.” He opened his pouch and took out some silver coins – probably six month's wages to the guardsman – and stuffed them into the small pocket sewn into the man's gambeson. “Look after your little boys.”
With a wink, Scarlet stood and left the room, closing the door behind him.
* * *
“Don't think I trust you, or we're friends or anything like that, Hospitaller. Your warped sense of honour may be telling you to come to Pontefract with me, but you still murdered Walter and I'll watch you hang for it.”
Sir Richard nodded at the young man's rant. They had been travelling for hours and he was tired and bored. Any attempt at conversation had been met with stony silence or threats of violence; sometimes Edmond would lash out physically as he just had, almost as if reminding himself of their roles.
“I didn't murder your brother: you two atta
cked me, remember. I saw two young men coming at me with naked blades – how would you have reacted?”
Edmond growled but didn't reply.
“You look a hardy fighter to me,” Sir Richard went on, turning to eye his captor's powerful, if short, arms and a nose flattened from many brawls over the years. “I'm sure you'd have done the same as I did.”
The tanner's son knew the knight had the right of it, and it gnawed at him to realise Walter had died because of him and his stupid plan. Two village boys overpowering a Hospitaller Knight, a man who had fought, and won, countless battles in the Holy Land! The idea seemed ridiculous now, and Edmond shook his head sorrowfully at his own hubris.
“Your mother died when you were young, didn't she?”
Edmond glared at Sir Richard, but the knight's face was open and sincere, with no trace of malice in it, and he muttered a reply. “She died giving birth to Walter.”
“And your father?”
“He died two months ago. I took over his shop.”
They walked on in silence for a while, the road wide and open at this point as the ancient Romans had paved it and the trees hadn't managed to reclaim the ground yet. Dark clouds filled the air and Sir Richard huddled into his cloak which wasn't a thick one since he hadn't been expecting this long journey when he'd left his castle.
“Did the villagers make things hard for Walter?”
Again, Edmond looked at his captive's face, trying to read the man's expression, but all he saw was apparently genuine interest. What harm would it do to talk to the knight? It might help ease his own guilt, if even a little.
“Walter was a nice person. The children his own age used to hit him because he was different to them – slower. But he never hit them back, he didn't really have it in his nature. He would come home and sit by the hearth crying. Da would tell him he had to stand up for himself, but he wouldn't, and that just made it worse.”
The images came to his mind and he clenched his fists in anger at the cruelty of the boys. “Then one day he came in and his shoulder was out of place. The barber said it was...”
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