It refused to move.
“What's wrong?” Tuck demanded as Scarlet wiggled the latch and cursed.
“It's locked from inside,” the infuriated outlaw replied, eyes flicking nervously along the hallway as he continued to try the handle. “The latch must have fallen when I left the room earlier!”
The sound of footsteps came to them then, and a man's voice, singing softly to himself, apparently drunk.
“Come on, Will!” Tuck hissed, but the door was locked and no amount of shaking was going to free it.
The singer – an obviously wealthy man from his expensive clothing – appeared from the stairwell to the latrine and cast an inebriated eye over them, an idiotic half-smile on his face. He nodded inanely at them as he moved past, and the outlaws felt a moment of relief.
The man stopped a few paces along the corridor and spun round unsteadily. “I know you!” he shouted, staring at Scarlet. “You're that” –
“Open the door, Will!” Tuck roared, and launched himself at the drunkard.
Robin was left to steady himself on his staff, as Will stood back and hammered kick after kick into the sturdy door while the friar landed a flurry of punches into the unfortunate nobleman who collapsed in a heap on the stone floor.
“Open it, now!” Friar Tuck glared at the red-faced, panting Scarlet and leaned down to drag the unconscious nobleman over to the doorway which, finally, burst open with a massive crash.
Robin limped into the room, as Will grabbed the right bicep of the unconscious party-goer and he and Tuck dragged the man inside.
They pushed the door shut behind them, just as a clamour of voices came to them from the feast. From the sound of it, at least half a dozen men had decided to go for a piss at the same time, and the outlaws shook their heads in relief.
“Just as well you got that door open,” Tuck said to Will, who threw him a sour look as he finished with, “it took you long enough.”
“Hurry,” Robin muttered, slipping to the floor, his eyelids fluttering weakly.
“Right.” Will nodded, taking in the sight of the guard, James, still safely bound on the floor, watching them intently. “We can use these.” He grabbed a pile of neatly folded white sheets and hurriedly tied them together. “Four or five will be enough...are you going to have the strength to hold onto this as we lower you down?”
Robin watched his friend as if in a daze, and Will shook his head in frustration as he looked over at Friar Tuck. “I'll make it six so we can tie one around his waist. He's not going to be much help like that.”
“What about him?” Tuck asked, nodding at the guardsman lying tied up on the floor. “He'll give us away. I'm pleased, but surprised, that you left him alive in the first place.”
Will shrugged as he tied the sheets together. “We shared a few ales with his brother earlier tonight. He's the guard that climbed out the latrine to see his girl, remember?”
Tuck locked eyes with the bound guard whose expression was unreadable. He walked over to him as Will finished tying the last of the sheets together and leaned down, their eyes still fixed on each other's.
“Your brother seems a good man, and, from what he told us, so are you,” the friar said. “So are we.” He gazed earnestly at the man. “Look at what your Sir Guy of Gisbourne did to our friend. Robin Hood: a man who helped the poor to eat in winter! A man who steals from those who are obscenely wealthy to give to the likes of your brother. Gisbourne almost killed him, and Sir Henry de Faucumberg will hang him if he can.”
Scarlet tied off the last of the sheets and bundled the lot together in his arms. “Don't give us away James, eh?”
The guard looked at Will, then at Tuck, and finally, nodded his head. Will smiled, praying the man would keep his promise.
“Let's get out of here.”
* * *
Edmond, trusting the Hospitaller would return, had crafted a small fire and, exhausted by their long journey, sunk into a kind of a trance state once he'd managed to get a blaze going with his flint and steel. The camp-fire filled his vision and the heat drove the ache from his muscles as he gazed into the hypnotic dancing flame and pondered his life.
His brother was dead, but he still had the knight. Sir Philip would reward Edmond with silver once he turned over the Hospitaller – enough to expand his father's old tannery on the edge of town so he could continue to support himself.
The thought both comforted and sickened him. He would be able to make a comfortable living until he was elderly, which was all a man could ask for. But at the same time, he knew those bastards in Kirklees would continue to look down on him as if he was beneath them.
He felt old. Much older than he should have at his twenty-four years. He shook his head angrily. Once he built a bigger tannery he would be able to earn more money and he could find a new wife. The village men didn't care about looks when it came to marrying off their daughters, only status and, more importantly, money mattered.
He would have enough money to marry whoever he liked!
Then...then the men would respect him.
He slammed his fist onto the ground in frustration. He was as bad as them, trying to impress them, to be accepted for his wealth, as if their fucking opinion mattered.
For his entire life, Edmond had been confused, wanting to be accepted and respected, and resenting his brother for holding him back socially. The warm tears filled his eyes as he thought of Walter, innocent Walter, who simply wanted to be everyone's friend.
A cold rage filled him then, as the injustice of his whole life filled his head, and it was just as well, as a figure flew from the trees towards him, sword held high ready for a killing blow.
Edmond somehow managed to lift the sword he'd taken from Sir Richard and parried the attacker's blow awkwardly as he jumped to his feet. He felt his wrist twisting as the steel blades met with a deafening noise and pain lanced along the length of his arm, making him cry out.
He held the Hospitaller's sword before him, eyes flickering wildly, as two other men appeared either side of his attacker.
“What do you want?” Edmond demanded, his voice stronger than he'd expected, given the fear coursing through his veins at the odds stacked against him.
“Your fire,” his original attacker grunted with a confident grin. “And any food you have – we're starving, see?” He patted his round belly which looked as if it had been filled with both food and ale often enough over the years, then his face became deadly serious. “And we'll have that fine blade.”
Edmond's eyes moved between the three robbers and the anger built inside him again. People always treated him like a piece of shit! Even the dregs of society, like these toothless outlaws, would order him around as if he was nothing.
It didn't matter to Edmond then that the three men were well-armed and decently armoured, the rage was in him now and he didn't care if he lived or died.
All he wanted to do was kill these dirty, smug bastards.
Sweeping Sir Richard's sword up into the air, Edmond gave a hoarse war-cry and launched himself at the three robbers.
He would die here, but rather that than have anyone else treat him like filth.
* * *
When the hallway was quiet the three outlaws made their way out of the linen store and headed up the stairs to the latrine. Will went first, to deal with anyone that might get in their way, but there was no one there and they made it safely into the room.
Tuck had been forced to support his terribly beaten young leader up the steps, even though he himself was badly weakened from his own recent ordeal. By the time the pair reached Will, they were both breathing heavily and obviously struggling.
Will had shoved the wooden bench aside and retrieved the Franciscan robe, which he handed to Tuck as he hobbled into the room. “Stick it on. Aye, it stinks, but it'll keep the shit on the walls off you when you climb down.”
“We can't all go down at once,” the friar said, pulling the stained robe over his tonsured head. “Me and
you will have to lower him down.” He nodded at Robin who lay with his back against the wall, bruised face screwed up as the constant pain from his numerous injuries racked his body. “What if someone walks in? A guard?”
Will began tying the sheet around Robin's waist. “I'm dressed like one of them,” he replied, patting the blue surcoat. “If anyone comes up the stairs we'll hear them and I'll tell 'em the latrine's busy. If it's a guard...” He shrugged. They'd deal with that if it happened.
“Come on, Robin,” he knelt down and used his great arm and shoulder muscles to help the young man up. “You'll have to wake up a bit,” he said, staring into his leader's eyes. “Otherwise you're going to end up lying in a pile of shit when you reach the bottom.”
Robin gave a weak nod and glanced towards the opening as Will dropped the hacked-off pole-arm into the void.
“Right, let's do it.”
Tuck and Will helped Robin over the edge of the wall, making sure they held the tied-together sheets firmly, and then they started to slowly lower him down to the ground.
They played the fabric out, hand over hand, their young friend doing just enough to keep himself from battering painfully off the grimy wall, then Will froze, his heart sinking as someone came into the room behind them. Turning, he heard the sound of a surprised breath being drawn before the man challenged them in a commanding voice.
“What the hell are you men doing in here?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Tuck didn't seem to hear the question, but Will's head spun round and he looked at the nobleman watching them in bemusement.
Concentrating as they were on lowering Robin down the stinking shaft, the friar and the ex-mercenary hadn't heard the tall man coming up the stairs. Will cursed inwardly as he took in the man's height – bigger than he and Tuck – and his apparently alert expression; this party-goer didn't seem to be anything like as drunk as the rest of the fools that had been stumbling around the castle for the past few hours.
Thankfully, the newcomer had taken in the guard's surcoat Will wore and, despite his curiosity, didn't seem too alarmed at what was going on.
“I dropped something down the latrine,” Tuck smiled ruefully at the man. “My rosary beads. Archbishop Melton gave them to me,” he added sadly. “This guard was kind enough to help me try and recover them without climbing in amongst all the...filth...down there.”
As the man walked forward to look down the shaft where Tuck was gesturing, the two outlaws continued to play out the sheet until, thankfully, they felt the material go slack and knew Robin must have reached the bottom.
The big man peered down into the inky darkness just as Will released the sheet and brought his right fist up to hammer into the man's jaw, but, before he could collapse backwards onto the floor, Tuck grasped the back of his head and pushed him forwards, down the latrine shaft.
There was a wet thump as the stunned man landed face-first in the pile of shit below and Tuck couldn't suppress a shudder.
“He's unconscious,” the friar said, looking over the edge, the light from the torches guttering in the room they stood in casting just enough orange light below.
“Or dead,” Will growled in reply. “Get down there, in case he wakes up. Or drowns.” He gestured to the sheet that still lay hanging down the shaft, tying it around the bench which he shoved against the wall as Tuck disappeared below.
Will stood, hand ready on the pommel of his sword, but no one else came into the latrine until the friar reached the bottom of the latrine wall.
He untied the white sheet and tossed it down the shaft so no one would see it and wonder at its purpose, then he carefully made his way over the ledge, his feet and hands finding the gaps in the mortar that he'd used to make his original ascent. He stretched up and pulled the mildew-encrusted bench over the opening behind him, casting the shaft into almost total darkness.
A man came in to the latrine to take a piss as the outlaw climbed slowly down into the void, but Will smiled thankfully as the warm liquid passed him some way to the side, splattering noisily onto the mound of waste beneath.
Below, Tuck's grasping fingers finally managed to find the torch they had left there earlier that night, and, as Will reached the bottom, the pitch flared into life and the outlaws shielded their eyes against the brightness Tuck's spark had ignited.
Robin sat near the door, his eyes closed as if in sleep, but Will could see the young man's chest rise and fall and he thanked Christ for it. That they had managed to get this far was a miracle, he thought.
The nobleman Tuck had shoved over the ledge hadn't fared so well, Will saw, taking in the sickening angle the man's right arm lay at in relation to his body. Clearly the bone was broken. They pushed him onto his side, hoping the faecal matter wouldn't infect the open wound where the snapped bone had torn through the skin.
“He'll live,” Will growled, shaking his head contritely. “Unlike us if we're found. What do we do now, Tuck?”
Tuck looked at his friend in surprise. “I don't have a clue. I never expected us to get this far!”
Will shrugged his big shoulders. “We can't stay here; they'll rip the whole castle apart once they discover Robin missing and this one starts screaming,” he nodded down at the unconscious noble. “We'll head back to the King and Castle. It's not far and our disguises should see us past any nosy guards. We can hide Robin in our room and pay to stay a couple more nights until we think about what to do next.”
Tuck nodded uncertainly, his face pallid and sickly-looking in the torch's flickering glow. “What about that guard James? If he tells his brother what's happened tonight, word will spread and the sheriff will know where to come looking for us.”
It was a gamble they had to take. There was no other choice. Even if Robin and Tuck had been fully fit, they couldn't have just climbed over the walls out of Nottingham, in the dead of night, without being spotted.
“Come on,” Will replied, taking the torch from the friar and extinguishing it in the mound of human waste with a noisome stench that caught in their throats. “Let's head back to the inn. All we can do is pray God brings us luck. We're going to need it...”
* * *
Sir Richard was gasping for breath by the time he made it back to the camp-site, but he didn't have time to rest as his eyes took in the scene before him.
Edmond, blood covering his sword-arm, had been forced back against the thick trunk of an old beech, and desperately parried the attacks from two enraged men. A third man knelt on the ground behind them clutching his side which was also drenched in blood.
Awkwardly freeing the concealed dagger that was strapped to his calf, the big knight burst from the trees, surprising the attackers, and hammered the small blade into the nearest man's guts, forcing it up with all his strength and ripping it out with a wet sucking sound.
The man collapsed onto the grass, his eyes wide in shock and fear as his hands tried to cover the obviously mortal wound. Sir Richard kicked him in the face and grabbed the sword which fell from his limp fingers.
The remaining outlaw, terrified now, looked at the old knight, saw the feared Hospitaller cross on his black surcoat and decided to make a run for it. Before he could move though, Edmond swung his stolen sword in a high, wide arc and felt it bite into the side of the outlaw's skull, sending the man face-first onto the grass already dead.
Knowing the fight was over, Sir Richard placed his hands on his thighs and sucked in lungfuls of air.
Edmond, rage still burning in his veins, stalked towards his original attacker, who knelt, pale-faced, on the ground, blood seeping from the gash in his side that Edmond had inflicted on him.
“You win,” the man growled, his face twisted bitterly. “Just let me” –
Sir Richard winced as Edmond hacked his sword down into the outlaw's shoulder, slicing halfway into the man's torso.
“Here,” the tanner's son whispered, turning and throwing the sword onto the grass in front of the Hospitaller. “Have your sword back.�
� Then he walked over to sit by the fire, staring into it in a daze as Sir Richard stooped to retrieve his weapon.
As the knight wiped the blade clean using one of the dead outlaws' cloaks, silent tears streamed down Edmond's face. It had been a hard couple of days.
Sir Richard searched the corpses, finding little of value other than some food and an ale-skin, then he dragged the bodies out of sight and hurried back to where he'd dropped the firewood he'd collected before the fight.
When he returned with arms full of kindling the sun had almost crested the horizon and it was rapidly growing dark. Edmond hadn't moved, so Sir Richard built up the fire and finally sat down beside the grieving young man.
Silently, he handed Edmond the ale-skin he'd found. “Drink. It will help settle your nerves.”
Sir Richard leaned back on the grass, more tired than he'd felt in his life, but then he remembered Edmond had been hurt and, muscles protesting, pushed himself to his feet and moved over to the wounded man.
It was a long cut, which explained why there was so much blood on his arm, but it wasn't deep, thankfully. The Hospitaller moved into the trees where he'd dumped the bodies of the would-be robbers and returned with a blouson which he tore into strips and used to bind Edmond's arm.
The young man grunted his thanks, an odd look in his eyes, and Sir Richard shrugged. “Finish the last of that ale and eat a little of this.” He handed over some of the food – cheese and bread – that he'd taken from the dead men. “Then get some sleep. I'll keep the fire banked and take first watch.”
“Watch?”
The knight smiled. “Aye, lad, watch. Those three arseholes might have friends about here that'll come looking for them. You want to die in your sleep with a sword through your stomach?”
Edmond nodded, his expression now almost childlike. “I never thought of that.”
The Wolf and the Raven Page 21
