Wolf's Head (The Forest Lord)

by Steven A McKay

  WOLF’S HEAD

  Book 1 in The Forest Lord series

  By Steven A. McKay

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright 2013 Steven A. McKay

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part, without written permission from the author.

  For my daughter, Freya

  With Love.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Robin! Look out!”

  The cry came from close behind him, and he dropped to the ground, rolling to his left and coming up in one fluid motion ready for the attack he knew would come.

  “Hah. Nice move!” The man was laughing, but a meaty hand swung round viciously, aiming for Robin’s neck.

  He swayed backwards, feeling the massive fist of the miller brushing his shoulder, and, adrenaline coursing through his veins, lunged forward, arms outstretched. He caught the heavier, older man round the midriff, his momentum taking them both to the ground. Robin landed on top, his forearm pressing down on his opponent’s windpipe.

  “Yield, miller!”

  The miller tried to laugh again, gasping as his round face turned purple. “You win…Get off, you daft bastard!”

  Robin jumped up and spread his arms charismatically, grinning as he looked around at the cheering spectators.

  “The winner of this bout: Robin Hood!” The adjudicator raised Robin’s arm as the people of the village shouted and laughed in congratulations. The big miller, Thomas, smiled through gritted teeth, slapping his young opponent on the back, much harder than was needed. “You did well, lad. You’ve a natural gift for fighting. Maybe one day I’ll test you properly. Better watch that temper though.” He walked off, grimacing at his opponent, as the older village men mocked him cheerfully over his defeat.

  Robert Hood, or Robin, as everyone knew him, was tall, and, even at just seventeen years old, had incredible upper body strength, with enormous arms and shoulder muscles thanks to his training with the longbow since childhood. His honest brown eyes and easy smile made him a popular character in the small village of Wakefield.

  “You did it!” Robin’s friend Much slapped him on the back, a broad smile on his open face. “I never thought you’d be able to beat my da, he’s strong as an ox!”

  It was a fine spring day, the trees just about filled out with their green covering again, and the May Games were well under way. Everyone in the village was dancing, singing, competing in something or other, or simply enjoying the ale and meat the local lord, Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, had provided. The sounds of revelry and smells of food cooking filled the air, as the few skinny local dogs that hadn’t been eaten during the recent hard winters mooched around hoping to find some scraps on the ground.

  Robin grasped Much’s arm, laughing as he looked at his friend. “You’re right; I never thought I’d beat him either! One good punch and he’d have had me; his arms are like tree trunks.” He shook his head sheepishly. “I panicked when he almost got me; that’s why I just threw myself on him.”

  Despite his modesty, Robin had the speed, agility and quick thinking to make him more than a match for most of the men in Wakefield.

  “Aye, that was a wild move; my da wasn’t expecting it. Don’t think anyone was! Let’s go an’ get a drink.” Much dragged Robin along and they headed for the ale sellers. “Look, the May Queen’s coming.”

  Robin looked up eagerly; they both knew who would be Queen this year: Matilda, daughter of Henry the fletcher. Robin thought she must be the loveliest girl in all of England, and hoped, one day not too far off, to make her his wife. They had lain together occasionally over the past year, and promised themselves to each other, but Robin hadn’t worked up the courage to ask her for her hand yet. For all his swagger he was still rather a shy young man, not entirely confident in himself.

  Matilda appeared, walking slowly towards the village green, smiling happily. She wore a plain white dress which accentuated her slim figure, a garland of colourful spring flowers in her strawberry blonde hair, and, when her gaze rested on Robin for a second or two, he felt a small thrill run through him. She was followed by a great black bull, led by three Jacks-in-the-Green: village men in dark-brown cloaks, with ornate leaf masks covering their faces.

  The Sword Dance began as the small procession reached the centre of the village. Swords were laid on the ground in a six-pointed star shape, then the villagers, Matilda included, laughed and whooped as they spun around the steel hexagram holding hands and swapping partners.

  The bull was brought forward haltingly, as if knowing its fate, its hooves dragging in the damp spring grass, nostrils flaring and eyes bulging. It was an older beast, near the end of its life, but to most of the revellers it looked a magnificent animal.

  As it reached the centre of the whirling Dance, a Jack-in-the-Green moved alongside and grasped the animal’s great head, bringing a long knife out from underneath his cloak. The dancers slowed to a stop and watched in grim fascination as its neck was slashed open, the younger villagers gasping, wide eyed, as the blood flowed on to the grass below.

  “Praise be to Herne!” The villagers cheered and clapped in appreciation as the great bull’s life-force slowly ebbed away and it dropped ponderously to the grass with a gentle thud. Some of the blood was allowed to seep into the earth, in the spirit of the sacrifice, but one of the men soon placed a large wooden bowl under the incision to catch the valuable crimson liquid.

  “That was a big bull eh?” Much shook his head admiringly. “Do you think it’ll mean a good crop this year? Even my da struggled last year with the hard winter. You know what it was like, the whole village nearly starved.”

  Robin nodded, sharing his friend’s hopes. His own family had gone short of food during many of the previous winters. He didn’t want to feel the pain of a hunger-swollen belly again. The dying bull was the villagers’ plea to God – any god: In return for this mighty bull, let the year bring good weather for our crops.

  Although the people of Wakefield were Christian, the old gods and their ways had not been completely forgotten. While the Church didn’t approve, it generally let the people get on with it, as long as they kept going to Mass.

  With the black bull now dead, the crowd began to drift away to other amusements. An archery contest was about to start, and more people were dancing, as a travelling minstrel appeared and began cajoling the crowd to join in with his crude songs of love and lust, fighting and flatulence.

  “Look, shooting. We’ll win that!” Robin wandered through the crowd towards the archery competition, Much following in his wake.

  Both young men, like most yeomen in England, had been practicing with bow and arrow since they were seven years old, and although it was illegal to hunt deer in the forest, Robin had found it necessary during the previous harsh winters to help feed his family. Bringing down unsuspecting game with a longbow had made Robin a crack shot.

  Much usually had enough food to eat, being the son of the miller, but venison was always a welcome change from bread and pottage at the table in his house too, so he had become almost as good with a bow as Robin.

  They would do well in the archery competition.

  “Robin! Wouldn’t you like to dance with me?” Matilda, the May Queen, came up behind Robin and grasped his hand. Her blue eyes flashed in the sun as she swirled away, somehow still grasping his hand. She pulled herself in close again, pressing her face, and her body, close to his. “Hmmm? Dance?”

  Robin felt his face turn red as he gazed lustfully at the girl, and Much began to laugh. “He’d love to Lady May Queen, but the archery competition’s just starting. He’ll be back for that dance shortly!”

  Matilda pouted suggestively at Robin a
s Much tried to drag him away. “You’d rather play with your longbow than dance with me? Lots of other men want to dance with the May Queen; I won’t wait on you forever.”

  Robin grinned sheepishly, sensing the implied criticism in her words and, squeezing the girl’s hand, promised he’d be back shortly.

  The two young men swaggered off, Robin’s eyes lingering on Matilda’s lithe figure as she spun around into the dancing again. “Aye, she’s got a nice arse, but forget about her until I’ve beaten you in the shooting.” Much grinned, and pointed towards the wooden figures set up in the clearing, as Robin playfully smacked the back of his friend’s head.

  Today, he told himself. Today, I’ll ask her to marry me, I’ve waited too long as it is . . .

  Many of the local men had entered the archery contest, being well trained in the use of the longbow. Their lord expected those of able body to practise with the weapon, should he need a force of armed men in times of trouble, and, since carrying a sword was illegal for most villagers, the longbow was the main weapon for yeomen, villein and peasant alike.

  As the contest progressed the number of competitors was whittled down until only the two friends and four other men remained, but as Much raised his bow for his next shot, there was a disturbance near the dancers in the centre of the village green, and the archers turned to look.

  A loud voice could be heard, castigating everyone in the vicinity.

  “What’s going on?” asked Much, craning his neck to try and get a better view.

  Robin, unlike his smaller friend, could see over most of the people in the crowd and shook his head darkly. “Looks like that prior from down south. Shouting about something. The bailiff’s with him too.”

  Much glanced warily at Robin, knowing his friend had a great dislike for churchmen in general, and the wealthier ones in particular. Most of the villagers harboured resentment and bitterness towards the clergy – struggling to find bread to fill your family’s bellies during a long, cold winter, while the prior paraded around the country wearing a small fortune in gold and silver jewellery tended to create ill feeling.

  Robin had two younger sisters, Rebekah and Marjorie, but Rebekah, always the smallest of the smallest of the siblings, had been too weak from hunger to survive the harsh winter of 1315, some six years ago. Torrential rain had fallen on England constantly that year, ruining the harvest. The wheat that remained had to be dried out in ovens before it could be used, and even then it offered little nutrition when baked into bread. Many died of hunger, while travellers in the countryside were murdered by brigands desperate for the food they carried.

  Wheat rose to eight times its normal price, while barley, peas, salt and other essential ingredients were also, suddenly, too expensive for most people.

  Then the Scots came.

  Buoyed by their success at the battle of Bannockburn, they raided deep into Yorkshire, stealing what little food the people of northern England had left, while King Edward II did nothing to help.

  Robin had been only eleven then. He had seen people in his village eating horses and dogs – even heard whispered rumours of cannibalism – and he could still remember his little sister Rebekah’s tiny seven year old body, wasted away – emaciated. And even though Rebekah’s twin, Marjorie, had survived, she had never fully recovered her strength – her family were terrified she might go the same way as her sister if they suffered another famine like that of 1315.

  The sight of an overweight, richly dressed churchman like this prior made Robin’s blood boil.

  “Come on; let’s see what the fat bastard wants.”

  The pair headed over for a closer look, the archery contest forgotten.

  The Prior of Lewes, John de Monte Martini, retinue in tow, was checking on those parishes he was responsible for, to make sure they were being run properly.

  Today, it was Wakefield’s turn.

  The pleasant atmosphere of ten minutes earlier had gone, as the laughter and dancing died away under the clergyman’s pious ranting, his small group of armoured guards glaring around at the villagers.

  “Heathens! The lot of you!” the prior lambasted the people, forcing his way between them. “Animal sacrifice? Herne the Hunter? Green Men?” The clergyman snatched the mask made of oak leaves from the face of one of the men playing Jack-in-the-Green. The man glared back sullenly, but soon dropped his gaze to the floor. It didn’t do to make an enemy of the church, and the man, Simon, a poor labourer, had no wish to get on the wrong side of the fat prior, especially with the bailiff there.

  Although Wakefield was part of Thomas, Earl of Lancaster’s manor holdings, his bailiff, Henry Boscastle, oversaw most of the daily business of the place. He knew everyone that lived there.

  An angry voice shouted from the back of the crowd, “What’s the problem, prior? We do this every year; it’s just a bit of fun.”

  The churchman rounded in the direction of the voice, face flushing scarlet, as other villagers muttered in agreement. “I don’t care what you do every year. My predecessors might not have minded this pagan…nonsense! But I do. I expected to find you people at mass today, yet when I arrive at the village chapel I find the doors bolted and my flock – that’s you people – out here getting drunk on cheap ale and worshipping false gods.” He didn’t mention the fact that the local parish priest was nowhere to be found. In fact, Father Myrc had been enjoying a few drinks with the villagers and had run off back to All Hallows when he heard the prior was coming.

  The village headman, Patrick Prudhomme, pushed his way to the front of the crowd and attempted to placate the irate prior.

  “Forgive us, Father. These rites mean nothing. We’re all good Christians in Wakefield, the bailiff will tell you that. This is just a bit of fun to celebrate the spring coming.”

  The bailiff looked as if he’d rather be drinking free ale and eating some of the great bull which was surreptitiously hauled away to the butchers. A sullen man at the best of times and not averse to abusing his position for money or other favours, Henry Boscastle was not a popular figure in Wakefield.

  The prior was oblivious to all this, and carried on in an even louder voice, pushing his way further into the mass of revellers, moving further and further away from his hired guards, although the bailiff kept pace, thrusting people aside forcibly. “I don’t care what this is. I expect you all to go home, now, and sleep off the drink you’ve all taken too much of!”

  There were angry groans from the villagers, but no one felt brave enough to openly disagree with the prior, especially with the half-dozen mercenaries guarding him, although they looked fed-up with the whole situation. The prior wasn’t paying them much and he was a terrible travelling companion.

  Much shook his head in disgust, as Robin clenched his fists and fought to keep his temper under control.

  The headman raised his hands sadly. “As the prior says, everyone, let’s get this stuff cleared away, and make our way to our homes.”

  “You can all be at church tomorrow too,” cried the clergyman, “making suitable offerings, in penance for your wickedness today!”

  “Shove your offerings!” someone shouted, again, from the back of the crowd, well hidden in the sea of faces. Voices were raised in agreement, emboldened by their anonymity.

  “Aye, shove them up your big fat arse!”

  People laughed, but the atmosphere had turned dangerous, as the angry villagers, many of them half drunk, crowded threateningly around the prior and his retinue, rather than moving away as they’d been told.

  The prior’s mercenaries, although they couldn’t see over the mob, realised things were getting dangerous and tried to form up around the clergyman but the villagers surged forward. The lightly armoured men, unwilling to draw their weapons in such a volatile situation, found themselves being shoved further and further away from their charge.

  The prior’s face turned white as the bailiff, sensing the crowd’s hostility, and more reckless than the mercenaries, dragged his sword from i
ts leather sheath and pointed it at anyone he thought looked a threat. “Get back, you bastards, or I’ll take this to you.”

  Henry was an intimidating, commanding man, and the sight of his enraged face and drawn weapon calmed most of the crowd. “Go on, get back to your homes. Now!” he roared, kicking a retreating villager in the back, sending him sprawling. The man tried to get to his feet but found the bailiff’s face against his, sword blade pressing against his neck. “Go home, before I open your neck,” Henry growled, nostrils flaring with the promise of violence.

  The man edged backwards on the ground, wide eyes fixed on the bailiff’s sword, before he stumbled up and shoved his way into the mob, looking over his shoulder every few seconds to make sure Henry wasn’t following him.

  “Come on,” Much said, looking on in disgust from their position near the back of the crowd. “No sense in hanging around here with all this going on. Let’s go and get that drink from the alehouse – we never got one earlier.”

  Robin stood rooted to the spot though, staring over the other villagers’ heads at the clergyman, as Much, oblivious to his friend’s black mood, walked off in the opposite direction.

  Just then, Matilda, the May Queen, head bowed, moved past the prior and bailiff. “You – idiot girl. Get that filth off you!” The prior grabbed Matilda’s arm roughly and tore off the garland of flowers she was wearing in her hair, throwing it, and, inadvertently, Matilda, to the ground.

  Before he knew what he was doing, Robin found himself, in a cold fury, striding towards the prior and the girl he’d loved since childhood.

  While the prior’s guards found themselves hemmed in by the baying throng, unable to move towards their master, the host of people seemed to part for Robin as he stormed towards the sneering clergyman.

  “Keep your hands off her, you fat bastard . . . !”

  The villagers still angrily crowding the village green stopped as one, open mouthed, staring in disbelief at the enraged young man striding through their ranks towards the prior.