The Wolf and the Raven

by Steven A McKay

  He raised his face to the sky and screamed in fury until his breath gave out and he held his head in his hands in despair.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Stephen had left Clerkenwell at dawn the morning after his meeting with the Grand Prior. L'Archer would have liked to have thrown him back onto the streets directly after their meeting, but a lifetime of offering hospitality had forced him to allow the sergeant-at-arms to spend a few hours in bed and be furnished with some provisions to see him back along the Great North Road.

  Pushing his mount, although not too hard now since he'd carried out his mission, he had found the spot where he'd ridden down the blacksmith and his wife, but there was no sign of either. There may have been a shallow grave somewhere in the undergrowth beside the road, but Stephen didn't have the time, or need, to hunt for it. He had to find Helena before she showed Sir Richard's letter to the Grand Prior. Judging by L'Archer's reaction, the information could have disastrous consequences for both himself and possibly the Order as a whole.

  With no clues to her whereabouts, Stephen decided the most likely place to find her was in the nearest village, Highgate. Chances were that some locals had stumbled upon the injured girl with her dead husband, and would take her back to their village for medical treatment. What man could resist that innocent face?

  He removed his black surcoat with its distinctive white cross that marked him as a Hospitaller, in case Helena had told anyone about him and tried to stop him from finding her.

  It proved a wise move, as, on approaching Highgate, a pair of young men passed him on their way to their labouring job at a nearby farm. Greeting them cheerily, and asking after news in their village, he feigned shock when they blurted out that a beautiful girl had been terribly wounded and her husband murdered by a rogue Hospitaller knight.

  Little of interest ever happened in Highgate, which was a tiny little place, so the two young men were glad to tell Stephen everything that they'd heard, shaking their heads and asking what the world was coming to as if they really cared.

  The sergeant let them speak, nodding and gasping in apparent outrage as the men talked and, eventually, they told him she'd been taken to the local inn, which also doubled as a barber's shop.

  Waving goodbye to them, Stephen kicked his palfrey, its big blanket bearing the Hospitaller cross also removed earlier that morning, and rode straight into the village, eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of the girl. The labourers had said she was terribly wounded and had been confined to bed by the surgeon, but Stephen knew Helena was more than capable of having him beaten to death by a mob of angry men if she turned on her considerable charm.

  The village was small, and the inn stood out like a cow in a chicken coop, but Stephen knew it was foolhardy to just walk in the front door and ask to see the injured girl. Night was approaching anyway, so he left his horse hobbled to a tree in the thick woods outside the village and, when darkness descended, made his may back through the gloomy streets to the alehouse, which beckoned through the chill spring air to weary travellers seeking some meagre comfort and warmth.

  It seemed unlikely that whoever had brought the injured girl here would have carried her, or made her walk, up the stairs to the upper storey, but, having no idea which room she might be in, Stephen had no choice but to find a way inside and try each one until he found her.

  If anyone tried to stop him, he would have to remove them as silently as possible. He was a natural, and highly skilled, fighter but he couldn't take on an entire village at once.

  Stealthily making his way to the rear of the building, where passers-by wouldn't be likely to discover him, he chose the first unlit window he came to and stood outside, straining his ears for signs of life inside. Hearing nothing, he pried open the crude lock with his dagger and hauled himself into the room, praying to St John that the girl would be here, in a deep sleep, so he could get the hell out of there quick, and back to his beleaguered master.

  The two low beds were unoccupied though, so he moved quickly to the door and, satisfied the hallway outside was silent, he moved out and along to the room on the left. If he had to check every room, he would. There could only be half-a-dozen guest bedrooms in a small village inn at the most anyway, and, even if he startled someone, any shouts of alarm would hopefully be drowned out by the racket coming from the common room which sounded like it was heaving with merry locals tonight.

  Helena wasn't in the next room, or the one after, and the Hospitaller began to feel tense and angry, beads of sweat running down his back and making his armpits uncomfortably sticky.

  He moved onto the fourth room, on the opposite side of the corridor, now working his way back to the room he'd started in. He felt like the Angel of Death, knowing his heightened state would probably lead to him killing anyone should they stumble from the common room into this quiet hallway. He stopped for a moment, slowing his breathing and forcing himself to relax.

  “Give me a simple fucking battle any day,” he muttered to himself, knowing the knot in his stomach was down to the fact he was here to assassinate a woman, and a beautiful woman at that.

  Had it been a big, hairy-arsed outlaw, or one of the countless Saracen soldiers he'd faced before he'd followed Sir Richard back home to England, he would have been as focused and calm as a cat stalking a blackbird.

  Exhaling a huge breath, visualising his nervousness leaving his body along with the spent air, he pushed open the next bedroom door and slipped inside, trying to get his bearings in the unfamiliar surroundings. The previous three bedrooms, on the other side of the corridor, had all shared the same layout, with the bed in the far right corner from the door, but he couldn't be sure these rooms would be the same, so he stood peering into the gloom, senses straining for anything that would allow him to get his bearings.

  “Who's there?”

  The voice that came from the left was unmistakable, although quite different to how Stephen remembered it, no doubt because most of Helena's front teeth had been smashed out by him the last time they'd met.

  Knowing the girl would likewise recognise him should he speak, he remained silent but moved quickly towards the direction the voice had come from, cursing inwardly at the almost total darkness which would make this even harder than it already was.

  The shape of the bed came into view and he stretched out to where he hoped her throat would be, grasping his dagger grimly in his other hand, his legs weak at what he knew he must do.

  Understanding her nocturnal visitor meant her no good, Helena suddenly screamed, the sound filling the little room, but giving away her position almost as well as if daylight had flooded the place.

  The Hospitaller reached out and closed his hand around her neck, squeezing hard enough to strangle the desperate cry and, despite the suffocating darkness, their eyes met and recognition flared in Helena's horrified stare.

  “Please...” she gasped. “Please...!”

  The sounds of revelry from the common room carried on in the background, as they looked at each other, but Stephen hesitated, his sense of honour rebelling at what he was doing, and he released the pressure on the girl's throat, his dagger remaining by his side.

  For what seemed like an age they gazed at each other, both breathing heavily. Then, Helena's lip curled in disgust and, with a smile of satisfaction she whispered. “You! Even in the dark you're revolting.” She laughed gently at his weakness, despite his hand still being on her throat. “The last time we were alone in a room like this you thought I was going to let you fuck me.” Her voice rose again, almost shouting, yet still Stephen couldn't move. “You ugly old bastard – no woman would let you touch them!”

  His right hand rose and fell and his dagger hammered into her chest, four, five, six times, and he felt warm blood spurting from her mouth onto the hand that squeezed her smooth neck.

  As he stood there, numb, not quite understanding what was happening, the door at the end of the hall opened. The sound of at least a dozen men laughing and drink
ing seemed to deafen him and he came back to his senses with a start.

  “You all right in there, lass?”

  The voice was a woman's, and the Hospitaller knew he didn't want to kill anyone else this night. Without thinking, he launched himself shoulder-first at the shutters on the window, feeling them burst open with a loud crack. He fell through the opening and landed on the muddy road outside, breathless.

  Inside the room, the woman, whoever she was, had come in, a candle lighting her way, and a scream filled the night.

  Stephen, panting like a dog, ran instinctively through the village towards the trees where he'd left his horse, the meagre light cast by the crescent moon aiding his desperate passage as men's voices added to the woman's scream, filling the gloom behind him.

  Stumbling, the air seeming to burn in his lungs, he crashed through the undergrowth, eyes flashing left and right, searching for the old palfrey that was his only chance of escape.

  Sobbing at what he'd done, he cried out in relief as a soft, frightened nicker came to him from close-by and he hastily untied the horse before dragging himself into the saddle and, heedless of the dangers of low branches or trailing roots, kicked the animal savagely into a canter through the trees and onto the main road, clinging to the reins in fright.

  Christ! Forgive me!

  * * *

  Little John was pissed off, and confused too. Since they'd brought Robin back to their camp in Barnsdale their young leader hadn't been himself. It was perfectly understandable, given the beating he'd suffered at the hands of Sir Guy of Gisbourne, but John had expected his friend to come out of his depression after a couple of days at the most, when some of the physical pain had started to ease.

  But he hadn't; he was as lethargic and disinterested as he'd been when they met him at Nottingham's gates and brought him home. John didn't know how to deal with it.

  He'd seen men change before, of course. When bad things happened, a person's character was bound to change, especially if they weren't that mentally tough to begin with. John had seen Robin as an immensely strong young man though – inside and out.

  It worried the giant outlaw greatly. Not only was his friend a shadow of his former self, but without Robin they lacked leadership. He and Will Scarlet were more than capable second-in-commands, but neither of them had the vision or charisma to see them safely through a summer which promised to be tougher than ever before, with Gisbourne and the rest of the king's bounty-hunters searching for them.

  The mood in the camp had been affected too. They had lost a few men recently, and been betrayed by one of their own, but for all that, the audacious rescue of their popular leader from right under the nose of Gisbourne and the sheriff had cheered the outlaws greatly. The first night back in Barnsdale after their trip to Nottingham they had celebrated with meat and ale, singing and ghost-stories. The sense of camaraderie had never been stronger John thought.

  It didn't last long though, as the days passed and Robin sat, melancholy and morose, ignoring the men even when some of them tried to snap him out of it. Allan-a-Dale had made jokes, Tuck had spoke of God and the Magdalene, while John himself had got angry with the young wolf's head. All to no avail.

  John shook his head, embarrassed at his treatment of Robin, but he couldn't just stand around and watch while his friend sickened himself into an early grave.

  Finally, this morning, tired of sitting about the camp, constantly on watch for Gisbourne and the sheriff's men coming looking for their stolen prize, John had decided to take the fight to them.

  Most of the outlaws knew this part of the forest well, having camped here for weeks at a time on different occasions over the past few years.

  If Gisbourne and his men came looking for them, rather than moving on, today the outlaws would strike back.

  John and Allan-a-Dale had led some of the men – twelve of them in total – into the trees, armed and ready to let out their anger at the past few months' events.

  “D'you think we'll get a fight?” Allan asked as they pushed their way through the trees on one of the almost invisible little pathways the outlaws knew so well.

  John shrugged. “I don't know. I hope so, but...to be honest, I just wanted to get out of the camp and feel like I'm doing something worthwhile. The king's men have been coming into Barnsdale in small groups for weeks now and, with Robin escaping the city, there's a chance even more of them will come hunting us.” He hefted his great quarterstaff and grinned wickedly at the minstrel. “The bastards think they have us on the run, beaten down and terrified. Most of the rebels that are hiding out around here probably are. We'll give the soldiers a fright though, if they turn up anywhere near here today.”

  It was mid-afternoon, the men fed-up and grumbling, before, at last, they saw the signs of a body of men passing through the trees around them. Freshly snapped branches, grass still bent against the forest floor, and damp patches of urine where a couple of men had relieved themselves against one of the mighty oaks that stood like giant sentinels all told John that someone was close.

  Friend or foe, they would soon find out.

  “They're heading west,” the massive outlaw noted as the rest of the men gathered around him. “They've stuck to the obvious path, which suggests they don't know the area as well as we do. They might be bounty-hunters looking for us, or they might be other rebels who're trying to stay ahead of the law.” He fixed half-a-dozen of the outlaws with a steely gaze and ordered them into the trees following the path to the left. Allan-a-Dale was tasked with commanding the group.

  “The rest come with me, we'll take the right. Move fast, but do it silently and try to keep in sight of each other, all right Allan?”

  The minstrel nodded self-assuredly.

  “If I attack with my men,” John went on, watching Allan earnestly, “wait until the bastards have engaged us, then hit them silently from behind.”

  The forces split and, like dark wraiths, disappeared into the undergrowth either side of the beaten path, making their way west towards their quarry.

  It didn't take long before John heard the men in front of them. They were moving at a leisurely pace, making a fair bit of noise, and he cursed. Obviously Gisbourne wasn't leading these men, or they'd be acting in a much more professional manner.

  They could still be dangerous though, so John waited until they caught up with the travellers before making any uninformed judgements on their competency or deadliness.

  Reaching a point a small way ahead of the men blustering through the trees as if they hadn't a care in the world, John brought the outlaws to a halt and they peered through the early-summer foliage, watching the party of hard-looking men that came towards them.

  It was the sheriff's men. They wore the light blue livery of the Nottingham Castle guardsmen, and the outlaws realised Sir Henry de Faucumberg had weakened his own garrison in order to send out as many men as possible to hunt the escaped Robin Hood.

  As tough as they looked, the soldiers were clearly no woodsmen. They blustered through the foliage, cursing as branches slapped and swatted them, stumbling over concealed roots, obviously confident in their numbers and official status.

  On the opposite side of the path, John's trained eye could see the stealthy movement of the rest of the outlaws as they moved into position and, with a shake of his head at the incompetence of their would-be captors, looked along the line at his own half-dozen men and, hefting his quarterstaff, gave a nod.

  There were fifteen soldiers, and, to their credit, they fell into a tight defensive formation when the first of them to notice the attacking outlaws gave a shout of alarm. John's men made no war-cry as they hit the blue-liveried guardsmen. The didn't use their longbows, in case they hit their fellows on the other side of the path – instead they fell on the soldiers with their swords, while John parried their leader's own thrust and rammed the butt of his staff into the man's face.

  The sheriff's men, panic in their eyes, fought back savagely, and were, for a while, able to
hold their own. They might not have been skilled at moving through the forest quietly, but they knew how to wield their weapons, and their light armour was of a good quality. Despite John's enormous quarterstaff, and the skill of his six men, the soldiers began to win ground, pushing the outlaws back.

  Then, just as it seemed things would go badly wrong, Allan-a-Dale led his party of outlaws into the fight, appearing from the thick trees like wood-spirits and hacking at the backs of the soldiers.

  Panic spread quickly through the embattled men as half of them fell in the space of a few moments, and the remainder tried desperately to fight on two fronts.

  The outlaws had trained for, and used in combat, this sort of manoeuvre countless times though. When one of the sheriff's men turned his head to counter an attack from behind, one of Little John's men plunged his sword into the soldier's back or side.

  It didn't take long before the battle was almost finished, but one of the soldiers shouted, “Robin Hood! We're here to talk to Robin Hood!”

  John heard the shouts and roared at the outlaws to stand down and move back. The battle had been so quick that none of the outlaws had become lost in a frenzy of bloodlust, as so often happened in war and the giant wolf's head was pleased as the men lowered their weapons and moved back breathlessly to let the sheriff's man speak.

  Three guardsmen remained alive, all breathing heavily, but no fear showed in their eyes, just determination and anger, and John found himself respecting their courage.

  There was a short period of quiet, as everyone regained their breath, then John pointed his staff at the guard who had been shouting.

  “You. What is it you have to say to Robin Hood?”

  The guardsman, a short, stocky fellow with a great dark beard, glared at John and spat into the grass.

  “You'll be “little” John.”

  “How did you guess?”

  “We're here with a message, from Sir Henry de Faucumberg, Sheriff of Nottingham and Yorkshire.”