The Wolf and the Raven

by Steven A McKay

  Without another word, he ate the proffered food and finished the ale, then curled into a ball close to the fire and shut his eyes. Either he'd forgotten Sir Richard was supposed to be his captive, or he simply didn't care any more.

  Or perhaps he trusts me now, the old man mused, and the thought made him smile.

  He'd fought well, the lad. He had a natural talent for it. If Sir Richard hadn't been a wanted rebel he might have helped Edmond find a place as a sergeant-at-arms in the Hospitallers.

  At that, his thoughts drifted and he wondered again where his own faithful sergeant was. Had Stephen even made it to London and the Order's headquarters, or had some evil befallen him on the road?

  Sir Richard shook his head sadly. The way things were going for them recently, it wouldn't be that much of a shock if his friend had met his doom on the road to Clerkenwell.

  Or if the Grand Prior has killed him to save a scandal...

  * * *

  “More ale, here, inn-keep!”

  Will smiled and shook his head at the friar, who had finished two bowls of mutton stew with half a loaf of black bread and now sat patting his stomach in satisfaction.

  After they had escaped from the castle they'd made their way, unhindered, back to the King and Castle. Although it was only a short distance, by the time they reached the inn, Robin had almost passed out from pain and exhaustion, and Tuck couldn't have walked any further.

  Will had helped Tuck in through the window, then, between them, they hauled Robin in, before locking the wooden shutters behind them with relieved sighs.

  The room had two beds, which were little more than flimsy wooden frames with dirty old straw mattresses placed on top, but it was just what Robin needed after lying on a cold stone floor for days. He fell into a deep, healing sleep as soon as his two friends helped him onto the bed, and Will had quietly but firmly told Tuck to take the other pallet while he collapsed into a rickety old chair, the only other piece of furniture in the room.

  The next day, Will had woken feeling good, but dirty. The filth that had caked him as he climbed up and down the latrine had dried into his skin and the room stank worse than it had when they'd first arrived at the inn. Still, he grinned as he looked at his two sleeping companions. They'd done it! Rescued Robin from a heavily defended castle, right under the nose of the sheriff!

  His grin faded as he realised they weren't in the clear yet, far from it. The guards would have discovered their prisoner was missing by now; the castle would be in uproar. Sir Henry de Faucumberg would be livid and Christ knew what Sir Guy of Gisbourne would do.

  The sun had already risen and was streaming through the gaps in the window shutters, so Will got up and shook Tuck gently awake.

  “Give me your robe, and whatever else is covered in shit,” he ordered. “I'll get it all washed somewhere. You'll have to help me get Robin's stuff off him too – he won't be able to do it himself.”

  In the light of day, Robin's injuries made Will and Friar Tuck wince as they undressed him. The young outlaw's entire body seemed to be covered in red, purple, green and yellow bruises. His fingers were terribly swollen, as was one side of his face. Dried blood caked his nose and mouth.

  Scarlet felt rage building inside him as he took in the sight of his friend so horribly beaten. That bastard Gisbourne would pay for this.

  Eventually, Will had the dirtiest of their clothes clutched in his hands and he pulled Tuck's spare robe, stinking as it was, over his head. He would need it to make his way through the city without being recognised.

  “I'll be back soon,” he promised. “Keep the door locked.”

  With that, he'd opened the shutter on the window and waited until the street outside was empty, before jumping out. After obtaining directions from a local man, he hurried off towards the eastern part of the city, and the local wash-house, where he knew he would find women to wash his pile of clothes for a coin or two.

  It was easy enough to have the garments, and himself, washed and he made his way into a deserted alley to take off the still-dirty grey robe he was wearing and pull on the wet, but freshly cleaned spare robe. Thankfully, the sun was high in the sky so he hoped that and his own body heat would soon dry the material before he caught a chill.

  He took the final dirty robe to a different washer-woman and paid her to clean off the waste caked into it, slipping her an extra silver coin to silence her questions, then he made one last stop before heading back to the inn.

  As he climbed in the window, freshly scrubbed and grinning in satisfaction at Tuck and Robin, there was a hammering on the room door.

  “Open up, in the name of the sheriff!”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  He had been left to wait on an audience with the Grand Prior, and, although he had been made comfortable with meat and ale, Stephen sat picking at the dry skin on his fingertips wishing the prior would call on him.

  “When's the last time you were here, brother?” one of the sergeants based in Clerkenwell asked him. He was a younger man called Henry, barely in his twenties, yet he had an impressive black moustache and a ready smile which even the grumpy older Hospitaller appreciated.

  “Years.” Stephen shrugged, sipping a little from the cup Henry had just refilled for him.

  They sat in the impressive great hall, at one of the long benches pushed in against the cold grey wall. Occasionally, people would pass through the room, some of the knights or other brothers offering a greeting, while those here merely on business – cleaners or delivery boys – kept their eyes respectfully on the ground as their footsteps echoed softly off the stone walls.

  “A word of warning,” the young sergeant muttered, moving closer and glancing around conspiratorially. “The prior is not quite the man you remember...”

  Stephen dipped his head in acknowledgement. The men stationed here in Clerkenwell knew who he was – sergeant-at-arms to the outlawed preceptor of Kirklees – and they'd guessed his mission here.

  Stephen appreciated the gentle warning, and he prepared himself mentally for the sight of Prior L'Archer, a man who had run the English Order of St John into the ground so badly that they were almost penniless.

  “His moods are changeable,” Henry went on in a low voice, stroking one side of his moustache thoughtfully. “If you find him in a cranky state of mind, your mission, whatever it may be, has little chance of success. If, however, he is in one of his benign stupors, there is a good chance he will acquiesce to whatever you ask of him.”

  Stephen grimaced as he pulled a little piece of skin on his thumb too hard, drawing a spot of blood and he sucked the stinging wound as Henry continued.

  “Unfortunately, he's not often in a benign mood, and it's almost impossible to make him see sense, which is why we're living here in near-poverty.”

  The older man smiled sardonically at the suggestion Henry and his fellows in Clerkenwell were living in anything like poverty and he guessed the young sergeant came from a wealthy family and was yet to see action, or any other kind of service to the order, anywhere other than here in London.

  They sat in silence for a while as Stephen fretted at his fingers and tried not to finish his ale too fast. He wanted to have a clear head when the prior finally deigned to see him.

  Eventually the door at the far end of the hall creaked open and a stocky, bald man waved a hand at Stephen. “The Grand Prior will see you now.”

  He shared a nod with Henry and followed the steward along an oppressively narrow corridor, fingering his master’s letter nervously, his heart thudding in his chest as if he were about to go into battle.

  I suppose I am, he thought. The result of this meeting will mean life or death for Sir Richard. I'll have to be on my guard here as much as I have in any fight I've ever been in.

  The steward showed him into a surprisingly small, cosy room. A fire burned in the hearth and a large glazed window allowed the early-spring sunshine to light the room and the ancient-looking man seated in a high-backed chair behind the h
uge oak desk that dominated the room.

  The Grand Prior was staring at something on his desk: financial records Stephen guessed. Finally he looked up and gazed at the sergeant-at-arms through watery eyes.

  “You are Sir Richard-at-Lee's sergeant, are you not?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “How is your master? I hear he has been disgraced. His – our – castle in Kirklees is under siege by the king's forces; and he has brought our Order into disrepute with his selfish actions. Frankly,” his rheumy eyes, which had been wandering around the room, flicked back to bore into Stephen's. “I'm surprised to see you here. It would be better for everyone if you and Richard had been killed in the rebellion. As if we didn't have enough to worry about. Yet...here you are. Why?”

  The grizzled sergeant wanted to tell the Grand Prior his financial mismanagement had done more damage to their Order than anything Sir Richard might have done, but he swallowed his retort and framed his reply more carefully.

  “Father, I believe you know my master from many years ago: you served and fought together in the conquest of Rhodes. You should know, then, that he would not have acted as he did for any selfish reasons. What he did, he did for the good of his tenants, and for England.”

  L'Archer leaned forward in his seat, his brows lowered angrily. “His tenants, and England, are not his priority! His loyalty is, or at least should have been, first and foremost, to the Hospitallers. We can ill afford to lose the rent monies Kirklees provided, meagre as they may have been. Who knows what the king will do with the lands now? I hear he has already seized control of them and, although they are still legally ours, Edward will be in no rush to return their control – or rents – to us.”

  He sat back again, his thin arms resting on the big chair which seemed to dwarf him, then went on.

  “You're right. I served with Richard for a time in Rhodes, and before that in Cyprus.” He paused as his thoughts drifted back through the years and he remembered being a younger man, rising rapidly through the ranks.

  Stephen thought the prior had fallen asleep, he remained silent for so long, but, after a while the old man sighed and gently shook his head. “Richard always wanted to do the honourable thing. I remember one of the battles we were involved in not long after he joined the Order. We were fighting in Armenian Cilicia, helping the Mongols defend some little town I forget the name of, but we were well beaten by the Mamluks. They'd been in the desert for weeks, low on food and water, and when the town fell we pulled back and left the Mongols to it. The inhabitants of the town were slaughtered: men, women, children. Raped. Tortured for sport.” His damp eyes met Stephen's. “You know what I mean: you've been in sieges yourself. When the town falls, the place becomes hell-on-earth.”

  The sergeant nodded with a grimace, knowing it was true.

  “Sir Richard personally tried to save every one of those townspeople: running here and there, dragging men off women, protecting children, stamping out fires... Eventually a couple of our brothers managed to pull him away and we made our retreat...Maybe he did some good there, who knows? I doubt it. Such is the way of war.”

  He shrugged. “Richard, as you say, must have been acting in the interests of the people of Kirklees. But, as in that town in Cilicia, his efforts were misguided and pointless. If you're here to ask me to speak up on his behalf with King Edward, you've wasted your time, I'm afraid. Richard is a good man; a man whose sword I was glad to have by my side in the East. Indeed, your master is the perfect knight in many respects. But his idealistic sense of honour always held him back – he would have been promoted far higher than preceptor in some little English backwater had he not been so damn...chivalrous. I'm afraid Sir Richard must fight this battle by himself – he has overstepped the mark this time. The Hospitallers will not intervene on his behalf.”

  Stephen felt his heart sink as the prior went on, his hands raised placatingly.

  “The king will, I am sure, not be seeking any sort of vengeance against you, though. You may remain here in Clerkenwell, until I can find a suitable posting for you. They are always looking for experienced sergeants in Rhodes, for example, and it would get you out of the country.”

  “I thank you for your offer,” Stephen replied through gritted teeth. “But if the Order will not aid us, I shall take the Great North Road back to Kirklees and stand by Sir Richard's side.”

  The Grand Prior tutted in annoyance. “I am your superior, sergeant. I could have you stripped of your rank and court-martialled for insubordination.” He waved his hand dismissively towards the door. “I must admit, though, I admire your loyalty. You and Richard must have made a formidable team. Be off then. Refresh yourself and your horse and ride back north to your doom.”

  Taking a breath, Stephen pulled Sir Richard's letter from his pocket and stepped up to the desk. “Before I leave, Father, I ask that you read this.”

  L'Archer eyed the envelope suspiciously, then, with a speed belying his withered appearance, snatched it from Stephen's hand.

  “The seal's been broken.”

  Stephen felt his cheeks flush. “The letter was stolen on my way here by... thieves. By the time I found them, they had opened it, no doubt hoping it contained something they could use for financial gain.”

  With a grunt, L'Archer pulled the parchment from the tattered envelope and began to read, his wrinkled mouth forming the words quietly as he did so.

  Stephen watched as the old man's face turned first scarlet, then chalk white, and the burly steward moved forward from the doorway, concerned, as was Stephen, that the prior might faint and fall off his chair.

  “Leave us,” L'Archer growled at the steward, halting the man in his tracks.

  “Leave us!” he ordered again when the worried man failed to move back.

  The steward threw Stephen a murderous glance but he moved past him and let himself out the door, and the sergeant-at-arms realised with some surprise that the old prior was, despite his recent disastrous incompetence, still held in great respect – affection even – by some of the Hospitallers in Clerkenwell.

  As the door slammed shut, the prior glared at Stephen. “Have you read this?”

  “No. I was ordered not to, and I did not.”

  “The two...thieves, you say stole the letter from you. Did they read it?”

  “I believe so, Your Grace,” he replied, then raised a hand to halt the furious prior's next question. “Have no fear, neither of them will be a problem. One of them is dead, the other...” He stopped himself from admitting one of the robbers was a woman. “The other I left with smashed teeth on the Great North Road, miles back, just south of Finchley. Even if they were to tell anyone what they read, no one would believe them” –

  “When you leave here, and before you return to Kirklees, you will find this other person and make absolutely certain they will never talk about this letter. Do you understand me?”

  Stephen hesitated. He was no assassin, to hunt someone down like a wild animal.

  “Do you understand me?” the Grand Prior demanded, his eyes suddenly clear and hard as iron. “You do want me to help your master, don't you?”

  The sergeant nodded. Assassin or no, he was a soldier, and he followed orders. “I understand.”

  “Good.” L'Archer replaced the letter back in its envelope, his hands shaking, whether from age or fury Stephen couldn't tell. “Once you have taken care of the thief, you may return to your master and inform him I will move with all haste to secure for him a pardon from our king, Edward.”

  Stephen felt the corners of his mouth twitch, but he knew it would be a mistake to grin. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “Get out, sergeant. I hope never to see you or Sir Richard again. Go!”

  Hastily, Stephen let himself out of the room, the anxious steward pushing past him to check on the frail prior who sat, ashen-faced, staring into the merry flames in the hearth.

  He had told L'Archer the truth: he had not read the letter. He had no idea what Sir Richa
rd might have written in it. Whatever it was, though, it had worked.

  Now, all he had to do was make sure Helena didn't talk, and make it back to Kirklees in time to make sure his master wasn't captured by the king's men.

  * * *

  “Get under the bed!” Will hissed at Robin as the pounding on the door intensified, gesturing to Friar Tuck to help move the injured young man beneath the wooden frame.

  “Here!” He tossed Tuck a robe before removing his own and pulling on a dry one that matched the one he'd given to the friar.

  “Open up, Franciscan, before I break the door down!”

  Tuck looked dazed, but Will nodded reassuringly and, with a last glance to make sure Robin was well out of sight, gestured at the friar to take the lead and pulled the door open.

  Two soldiers wearing the light blue of the sheriff's castle guard stood at the door, swords drawn. They looked confused as they took in the men before them.

  “Forgive me, my son,” Tuck smiled, rubbing his eyes theatrically. “My brother and I had a long night. We were still asleep when you came knocking. How can we help you?”

  “We're looking for two friars,” the foremost guard replied, glaring into the room suspiciously.

  “Then you have found us!” Tuck grinned, raising a hand towards Scarlet who kept his face hidden in the folds of his robe.

  The guards looked at each other. “We're looking for Franciscans,” the leader replied. “Franciscans wearing grey robes that are probably covered in sh – I mean excrement, brother.”

  Tuck's face dropped. “Ah, well then, you've come to the wrong place. We are of the Order of St Augustine. And our robes are, I hope, quite clean.” He cocked his head and placed a hand on the guard's arm. “May we be of service? Or must it be Franciscans?”

  “Come on, it's not them,” the guard at the back sheathed his sword, and his companion followed suit, eyes roving around the little room in confusion.

  “No, thank you, brother. The landlord told us he had a couple of Franciscans staying here. I'm sorry we bothered you.”