Wolf's Head (The Forest Lord)

by Steven A McKay

  Robin laughed bitterly, spreading his hands wide and looking around at the trees. “Bloodthirsty? They’d need to be – how the hell else would they survive, living their lives as outlaws in this godforsaken forest?”

  Much looked away, understanding the point, but not liking where the conversation was heading.

  “I can’t do this on my own,” Robin muttered. “I won’t leave Yorkshire. I need to find people who can help me.”

  “But Robin, there’s stories about these outlaws. Killing people for fun – killing children. Eating children . . . !” He shook his head in disbelief.

  “Don’t be bloody stupid!” Robin retorted angrily. “Who do you think’s spreading those stories? The nobles! They don’t want people to help the outlaws, so they spread ridiculous lies about them.”

  Much shrugged his shoulders. “You may be right, at least in part. But there’s no smoke without fire. My da says the leader of this group’s been an outlaw for years, and he’s done a lot of bad things to a lot of people. Adam Bell, that’s his name.”

  “I have no choice.” Robin was almost pleading, hoping to gain some understanding from his oldest friend; hoping to gain some reassurance that this was, genuinely, the only option for him.

  “How would you find this gang?”

  Robin answered instantly, having thought this over repeatedly for the past three days. “They have to hunt, which means they need to buy arrows, right? Matilda’s da is the fletcher in our village, so they probably get supplies from him sometimes. He might be able to send word that I want to join them.”

  The two friends sat for a while longer, still listening nervously for sounds of pursuing foresters, neither speaking as they contemplated how this idea of Robin’s might turn out.

  But the path was set. Robin travelled back to Wakefield with Much the next morning, to try and arrange a meeting with the band of outlaws.

  * * *

  “The king must be dealt with!” Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, slammed his palms on the hard stone bench in frustration, the noise echoing off the walls, and glared around at the other men in the chapter-house who were, mostly, nodding their heads in agreement at his proclamation.

  The earl, a tall, slim man with thinning salt-and-pepper hair and heavy bags under his green eyes, had called an assembly in Pontefract priory, inviting many of the most powerful men in England to attend. In dribs and drabs they had arrived with their retainers and entered the imposing building hastily, as a heavy downpour drenched their fine clothes and a powerful gale whistled along the old stone corridors.

  They were gathered in the chapter-house, a relatively cosy part of the building with a well-stoked fire burning brightly in a great hearth. Stone benches lined the elaborately carved walls, with columns and arcading all painted brightly, making the great octagonal room seem quite snug despite its high vaulted roof.

  Thomas had paid the monks well to pile a table with Rhennish, Gascon and Spanish wines, and a selection of fine foods. The sight of expensive bread, fried herring, peacock and pork in breadcrumbs cheered the soaked magnates while they shrugged off their wet garments and tried to warm the damp from their bones. The wind and rain buffeted the spectacular stained-glass windows set high into the walls as the earl continued.

  “Our tenants need help. There’s no point in demanding taxes or grain from them when the crops have failed and they have no bread for themselves; nothing to sell to make money; and the constant threat of raids from the barbarians over the border!”

  “Not to mention those damn Despensers!” Roger Mortimer, Baron of Wigmore shouted angrily. He, and some of the other Marcher lords who held lands around the Welsh borders, had travelled to this meeting after launching a devastating attack on castles belonging to the Despensers, who were loved by the king, but despised and feared, with good reason, by the other lords in the country.

  Sir Richard-at-Lee listened, a slice of freshly baked, buttered manchet in his hand, as he gazed around appreciatively at the magnificent building, noticing with interest a grotesque, and disturbingly lifelike, leering satanic head carved into the wall far above the altar.

  Sir Richard was the fifty-year old preceptor, or commander, of a modest estate in Kirklees, and had come to the gathering despite having misgivings. A knight of the Order of Hospitallers, with two fine sons, he was not too badly off under King Edward II. He knew throwing his lot in with the Earl of Lancaster and the lords from the Welsh Marches, could turn out to be a suicidal move.

  Still, it was true that the king could be doing more to protect the north’s interests, rather than allowing himself to be swayed by greedy, selfish and incompetent advisors such as the Despensers, which is why the proud Hospitaller had answered the earl’s summons.

  “The king sits in London demanding we tax our starving, impoverished tenants, but doing nothing to help while the Scots prepare again to ravage our lands!” The earl glared around at the magnates. “Stealing food from the peasants, killing our tenants – weakening us, gentlemen, for what are we without the income our tenants provide us?” He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, glaring round at the assembled nobles. “Meanwhile, the king is in the south, safe, while his greedy friends the Despensers fill his mind with poison . . . It cannot continue!”

  There were grumbles of agreement again at that – the Despensers, both called Hugh, were determinedly ambitious and, with the support of the king, had managed to gain a great deal of power in the past few years. Many in England and Wales feared the Despensers ruthless greed, particularly the Marcher lords Humphrey de Bohun, the Earl of Hereford and Mortimer who had decided to take matters into their own hands, seizing castles and lands, including Newport, Glamorgan and Caerphilly, belonging to the Despensers.

  Sir Richard helped himself to another cup of wine and looked around the chapter-house thoughtfully. Although there were a lot of powerful men in the room Richard wondered how many of them would back down if war was threatened by the king. Still, Edward would no doubt hear of this gathering and hopefully take it as a sign that he must do more for the northern and Marcher lords before things got that far.

  “You have it right, Earl Thomas,” Lord Furnival of Sheffield growled, chewing a baked spiced apple. “The king should be doing more to help those of us on his borders, as his noble father did.”

  A small, bald man with an immaculately trimmed moustache Sir Richard recognized as Multon of Gilsland, shouted in angry agreement from near the back of the room, his voice echoing across the distance. “His father, God rest his soul, was a real man – a real king. If he was still alive we’d have wiped out the threat from the Scots by now and be better off for it! I’ve been near enough ruined these past few years!”

  The Earl of Lancaster kept his expression severe, but Richard guessed he was pleased by the glint in his eyes. Years of neglect by King Edward II had turned many of his subjects against him. The gathered magnates knew the time was coming when they might be forced to take steps to remove the weak monarch and make the country great again. With Thomas of Lancaster at the helm, of course, Richard thought – he was the king’s cousin after all, the wealthiest earl in the land, and hereditary steward of England, a title granted him years earlier by Edward himself. The big Hospitaller had no problem with that idea – the earl seemed a capable, if haughty man, who had tried repeatedly over the years to keep his cousin, the king, in check. Although Sir Richard was a Hospitaller – an Order which remained outwith petty local politics –he had come late in life to the order and, with two sons to provide an inheritance for, secretly retained ownership of lands adjoining his Hospitaller commandery in Kirklees.

  The meeting carried on in similar fashion for a while longer, Richard and the other lords gladly eating and drinking their fill while airing a list of other grievances against the king such as his poor choice of advisors, his fondness for wine and his rumoured homosexual relations with former favourite Piers Gaveston, beheaded by Lancaster and his supporters almost ten years earlier.<
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  Mostly, though, the Marchers demanded action against the Despensers, although the northern lords were more interested in knowing how Edward expected them to hold back the Scots should they attack again.

  The Despensers greed and influence over the king was grave cause for concern amongst the noblemen throughout England, but to those in the north, such as Sir Richard, the threat of rampaging Scots was all too real, and seemed, at this stage, more immediate.

  Eventually, a monk came in, head bowed, and silently lit the torches set around the walls, and Sir Richard realised it would be getting dark soon. He hoped the meeting would end before much longer, considering he had only travelled here today with his sergeant-at-arms, and the forests around these parts were thick with robbers and other outlaws. Damn waste of good fighting men, he thought, someone could make a decent private army out of them.

  The Earl of Lancaster must have realised it was getting late too, as he stood and held his hands clasped before him until the gathered nobles noticed and fell silent.

  “I’m glad to know we are all of the same mind, my lords,” he smiled, meeting the gaze of those he knew held the most power and influence. “For now, though, I would counsel caution – we cannot afford to act recklessly, especially regarding the Despensers. Edward is still our king after all and he is very fond of those two.” There were angry mutterings again; Richard was impressed at how well the earl was working his audience. “I, myself, will pledge to support the Baron of Wigmore and the other Marcher lords in their dispute with the Despensers, but I realise many of you gathered here do not agree with me on that point…yet.” He glared at his audience, then shrugged his shoulder as if saddened by the magnates failure to make a stand against the king’s favourites and, by extension, King Edward himself. “So, for now, I would simply ask you all to join me in swearing an oath to defend one another’s lands against the Scots. If the king will not aid us, we must aid one another – we can’t allow those savages to ravage our lands again.”

  Lancaster’s plan was unanimously accepted, and Sir Richard knew the earl had made an important step. There was still some way to go though, before he had enough support to force the king to do anything about the Despensers.

  “Very well, my friends,” the earl smiled at everyone, meeting every eye. “I thank you for coming. Together – united! – we will repel any raids from north of the border.” He spread his hands, looking around earnestly at the men he had gathered. “With your blessing, I will now write to bishop de Beaumont of Durham, bishop de Halton of Carlisle, and archbishop Melton of York, asking for their advice. If they are agreeable, I will invite them to meet with us on the 28th of June, one month from now. I hope to see you all there. Perhaps by then we may even be able to do something about the Despensers.”

  “Assuming the Marcher lords haven’t already killed the bastards!” Multon of Gilsland shouted to laughs and cheers as the magnates pulled on their still damp cloaks and filed from the room, drunk with power and ambition as well as expensive imported wine.

  The Earl of Lancaster had successfully enlisted the support of some of the most powerful men in northern England, if perhaps not as many, and not as unequivocally as he would have liked. Next, though, he would reach out to those nobles in the midlands and the south he felt would rally to his cause.

  The earl grasped Sir Richard’s hand as he filed from the room. They had met each other, in passing, various times over the years and had a mutual respect for each other.

  “I’m glad you came,” Thomas said. “We need men like you with us – good, patriotic men who only want the best for England. How are those boys of yours doing? Edward and Simon is that right?”

  Richard was flattered that such a powerful man would remember his sons’ names, and he nodded happily. “Doing well, my lord, Edward followed me and joined the Hospitallers in Rhodes. Simon, my youngest, he’s off to a tournament in Wales as we speak – his first!”

  The earl smiled and slapped the big knight on the arm. “I hope he does well. And I hope you’ll come to the next meeting in a month’s time. Too many landowners have been dispossessed recently, Sir Richard, as a result of the Despenser’s and the king’s actions. You and your son have as much to lose as any of us here.”

  The Hospitaller met the earl’s eyes, wondering how the man knew about the lands he privately owned, but saw only honest concern there.

  Still, a lot could happen in a month and he remained unsure whether Thomas and the Marcher lords would be able to sway the King to their cause, so he simply smiled and nodded as the earl moved on to say his farewells to the next departing magnate.

  Sir Richard was impressed by the Earl of Lancaster. He would give the idea of attending the meeting at Sherburn-in-Elmet next month serious thought, as he knew the rest of the northern lords would.

  Unknown to any of the assembled magnates though, Thomas, earl of Lancaster, steward of England, had sent a messenger seeking another alliance to an inconceivable place:

  Scotland.

  * * *

  Joining Adam Bell’s outlaw gang proved simpler than Robin had hoped. As Much and Robin learned, to their surprise, many of their fellow villagers often did business, covertly, with Adam Bell – selling him and his men food and other supplies.

  Obviously, the outlaws had to get these things – arrows, clothing, ale, bread, rope etc, from somewhere. Robin just hadn’t suspected that so many of their friends and neighbours helped outlaws. Either the bailiff also never knew, or he turned a blind eye to make his own life easier.

  Matilda’s father, Henry, repaired Adam Bell’s men’s old arrows, and sold them new ones when they needed them.

  Henry had, a little reluctantly, asked Adam Bell to help Robin. Although the fletcher was content to do business with the outlaws, he too had heard the gruesome stories about Bell and his gang and, while not believing everything he’d been told, he knew the outlaw leader was a violent and uncompromising man. But, like Robin, Henry accepted the fact that the young man needed help and this was the only available source.

  So Robin was introduced to Adam Bell; a tall, well built, yet strangely refined man, with thinning hair, intelligent green eyes, and a hooked nose. The outlaw leader was accompanied by two vicious-looking men, who, despite their size and hard demeanour, were strangely deferential to Bell.

  “Don’t think it’s an easy life, boy,” Bell growled at Robin, handing over a small bag of silver to Henry the fletcher, in return for a bundle of fresh arrows. “You pull your weight in my gang, and you do as I tell you, understand? No matter what.”

  Robin nodded nervously under Bell’s glare, knowing this intense, forbidding man basically held the power of life and death over him. “I’m a good fighter, and I can shoot well. I won’t be a burden to you.”

  Adam’s two men grunted in amusement at that, but Robin ignored them, his face flushing. His temper had got him in enough trouble already.

  They set off an hour later, after Bell had completed his business in the village, and Robin had said a final goodbye to his parents and Much. Matilda had met Robin on the village outskirts, safely hidden by thick trees and bushes, as Bell and his two men waited impatiently.

  “I don’t know when I’ll be able to come back to see you,” Robin had said, holding the young girl’s hand earnestly. “I don’t really know how Adam’s group works. They travel around a lot, to keep ahead of the law.”

  “Why did this have to happen? Why couldn’t that prior just leave us alone?” Matilda wiped angrily at her eyes. “God curse him, I hate that man!”

  Robin hugged her close. “I know; me too. But the nobles and clergy do as they like, there’s no one to stop them. I’ll be back though. This’ll all blow over, you’ll see. And then…”

  “Aye, then…what?” Matilda looked pointedly at Robin.

  “Then I’ll marry you of course!”

  Matilda laughed gently. “Maybe. I’ve waited long enough for you to ask.” She became suddenly earnest. “But I can’t
marry an outlaw, Robin. It’d be no life for us. When – if – we marry, you have to be a free man again.”

  Robin accepted this, knowing it was true, no matter how depressing. For all his talk of things “blowing over”, he knew it would never happen. Outlaws were pardoned all the time in England, but it could take years, were it to occur at all. Matilda might be content to wait for now, but a girl in a village like Wakefield couldn’t stay unwed for very long. Life was too hard in these times – family security was vital.

  “I have to go,” he told her, glancing round at the path into the forest as Adam Bell shouted at him to hurry up.

  The couple shared a hurried kiss; their tongues exploring each other’s mouths, before Matilda breathlessly pushed Robin away, giving his swollen manhood a playful squeeze through his trousers. “Come back to me when you’re not an outlaw,” she told him.

  He gazed at her for a second, grinning, his body burning with desire, then, with a wave, hurried off to his new master.

  Aye, you’re the one for me, Robin, Matilda thought sadly as the young man ran off into the trees, tears filling her eyes again. But I can’t wait on you forever.

  CHAPTER THREE

  There was a ringing crack as the quarterstaff rapped Robin’s knuckles, and he yelped with the pain, almost dropping his own staff. Too late, he tried to raise it again, as his opponent continued his attacking move and thumped the weapon against Robin’s shoulder, hurling him sideways into the shallow stream.

  The outlaws cheered and laughed as the new young recruit splashed around, gasping in the water, before he managed to scramble back onto the grass again, cursing. He glared at his opponent, an older man called Matt Groves, all the while rubbing his bruised shoulder and blowing on his stinging fingers.

  Life in Adam Bell’s group was hard. There were sixteen men, not including Robin – all outlaws with nowhere else to go. The men trained nearly every day, with their great longbows, but also other weapons, such as swords, or as today, the quarterstaff.