Wolf's Head (The Forest Lord)

by Steven A McKay

  It was a cool day, the forest filled with the sounds of loud bird song and the spring sun trying to break through fluffy white clouds in a light blue sky as the men sparred under trees filled with dark green new foliage.

  “You’re getting better, boy,” Matt Groves nodded, his thinning blonde hair, arrow straight, bouncing in front of his cold eyes as he stared at the young outlaw. “You still fight like a fucking woman though.”

  Matt seemed to take some sadistic pleasure in besting Robin, perhaps trying to break his spirit, perhaps simply because Groves was a nasty bastard.

  While he had been one of the toughest young men in his own village, these were hard, experienced fighting men Robin was with now. He regularly found himself lying on the forest floor, looking up at the trees with a throbbing shin bone, cracked ribs or aching kidneys, while the outlaw he’d been sparring with looked down at him gleefully.

  “If you’re finished your swim, Hood; how about catching us some breakfast?” Adam Bell tossed Robin a hunting bow, which he caught with a grimace as his painful knuckles tightened around it.

  “An’ don’t be long, boy; I’m starving,” Matt Groves smirked, lying down on the warm grass beside the other men.

  Robin shook his head, his face red with embarrassment – at his defeat, and his being treated like a serf. But he held his tongue and strode from the camp into the thicker trees, promising himself he’d give Matt a good beating one day.

  There was a vague hierarchy in the outlaw gang – Bell at the top, his most trusted men next, and everyone else around the bottom. As a newcomer, Robin found himself the lowest of the lot.

  But his prowess with the bow, and resultant success hunting food the past few weeks had helped most of the men recognise him as a valuable asset.

  Adam Bell himself rarely noticed Robin, nodding a greeting or barking an order at him occasionally, but never sharing more than a couple of words with him. Some of the other outlaws had begun to strike up friendships with Robin though, which made his new life less lonely and, in fact, the young man had started to accept his new life.

  Suddenly spotting a family of grey hares relaxing in the sun near a clump of brambles he dropped onto one knee and silently fitted an arrow to the hunting bow, sticking another point first into the ground. He aimed at the largest of the little group and let fly. The other animals scattered instinctively as his arrow took the hare in the neck with a dull thump, but Robin smoothly pulled his second arrow from the ground and in a heartbeat had shot another. Smiling in satisfaction he collected the dead beasts and retrieved his arrows, his thoughts turning again to his new life as an outlaw.

  A handful of merchants and well-off noblemen had passed through the forest since Robin had joined the gang, and Adam Bell had relieved them of their goods and purses. But Robin had not taken part in those robberies. Only a handful of men went along each time and Robin wasn’t yet trusted enough to join in. Which suited him fine – he was quite content to stay in the background, out of harm’s way.

  Besides, many travellers hired bodyguards, and Robin didn’t like the idea of using a sword against a man he didn’t even know. Although he knew the day would come sooner rather than later, he was content to stick to sparring for as long as possible.

  Sometimes Bell and his men would come back from those robberies with blood on their clothes, and wounds of their own. Robin would tell himself there was no other way – either the group got money somehow, or they would all die. Living off the land was only possible up to a point – his two hares wouldn’t feed seventeen men for long. Money was still needed to buy clothes, salt, bread, arrows and other necessities from places like Wakefield and the other villages around Barnsdale.

  He continued hunting for a while, catching a couple of blackbirds and a plump dove to go with his hares. They’d help make a tasty enough meal for the men tonight.

  He made his way back to the camp, where one of the men had already filled their great iron pot with stream water and whatever vegetables they had lying around. Robin took out his knife and prepared the animals he’d caught. Skinning, gutting and plucking weren’t his favourite jobs but no one offered to help, so he got on with it in silence.

  When he was done, he added the meat to the pot and washed his bloodied hands in the stream. The other men were drinking ale round the fire, telling ghost stories, so Robin joined them, sitting near the edge of the group.

  As the sun slowly started to set one of the other outlaws cheerfully handed him a wooden mug brimming with dark brown ale, which he accepted gratefully and, as the delicious meaty smell of the simmering soup filled the camp, Robin smiled in satisfaction.

  It wasn’t an ideal life, but it could be a hell of a lot worse.

  * * *

  “Morning, Hood,” Adam Bell greeted him the next morning. It was a miserable, wet summer day, and Robin was planning on finding a nice big tree to shelter under where he could spend the day fishing. “We’re going after a rich churchman today,” his leader told him. “Get your weapons.”

  Robin was surprised, and found he was more than a little anxious. “You want me to come with you Adam?”

  “That’s right, lad. Your skill with a blade has improved a lot since you first joined us. It’s time you put it to good use. There’s a friar going down to visit the Prior of Lewes, and we know he’s going to be carrying a fair bit of money. A friend of ours in Boroughbridge overheard the churchman talking in a tavern and passed word to us. He’s probably hired a couple of guards to see him through the forest, but that’ll be it. Move it now, get your gear.”

  Robin scrambled to obey. When it came to the military side of things, Adam Bell had an unmistakeable aura of command about him. Clearly he hadn’t been a common outlaw all his life, but none of the other men trusted Robin enough yet to let him know what Bell’s story was. Assuming they even knew it themselves.

  He collected his longbow, along with the old sword he had brought from home, now with its edge nicely sharpened, and stuck a dozen arrows into his belt. He strapped on his gambeson as he ran to join the other men in the raiding party. This padded green fabric body armour was a gift from Bell, and, like his sword, had seen better days, but it came down to just above his knees and would turn many blows, short of a direct sword thrust. There was a patched hole in the back, from where such a thrust had killed the armour’s previous owner. Robin tried not to think of that too much as he fastened it in place.

  “Ah, you’re coming with us today?” One of Adam Bell’s most trusted men, John Little, slapped Robin on the back, almost knocking the younger man to his knees. John was a huge man, over six and a half feet tall, with the build of a wrestler, and a wild brown beard which made him look like a great bear, although at twenty four he wasn’t much older than Robin. The outlaws jokingly called him Little John.

  Robin liked the enormous man immensely, although he could be terrifying if enraged. Robin had rapped him painfully on the knuckles during a quarterstaff practice the previous week and had run off into the trees rather than stand up to the roaring giant. The other outlaws had found it hilarious, as had John when he calmed down and Robin returned sheepishly from his flight with a peace offering of a rabbit he’d shot for the big man’s dinner.

  “Feeling nervous?” John asked as the ten-strong group headed out of the camp to the main road through the forest, a spot just over a mile and a half away from their camp.

  Robin swallowed, nodding gently. “I’ll be fine though.”

  “I was shitting myself the first time I went out with Adam on a raid,” the big man admitted. “Worried I’d freeze if any fighting started.”

  Robin was genuinely surprised – the thought of Little John being scared of anything seemed incredible.

  John laughed, reading the look on Robin’s face correctly. “Listen, my life may not be worth anything to the sheriff, but it means a lot to me! It doesn’t matter how big you are if an arrow takes you in the back, or a soldier stabs you in the guts. There’s no shame in be
ing scared, lad, as long as you don’t let it control you.”

  The conversation did Robin good, calming his nerves a little, but he knew he’d always be afraid of how he’d react in a real life-or-death fight until the day he proved to himself he could handle it. He still hoped today wouldn’t be that day though– most of these robberies were simple, non-violent affairs. Bell’s well-armed, hard men simply threatened whoever they’d targeted, and the money and goods were handed over. It would be suicide for a merchant or churchman, normally only accompanied by, at best, a handful of guards, to stand up to the well-drilled outlaws.

  And yet it did happen from time to time, when they targeted someone as aggressive and proud as John or Bell himself. Robin hoped this friar they went to rob didn’t have guards like Little John with him.

  It didn’t take long for the group to reach the chosen ambush point, and Bell began issuing orders. Robin was surprised again, when he realised Adam didn’t just have the men hide behind trees until the target appeared, then jump out waving swords and demanding gold. On the contrary, Bell appeared to know this area of the forest well, and positioned the men in handily placed trees and bushes, encircling the vicinity. The road at this point narrowed, and both sides were fenced in – a rock wall on one side, and a dense grouping of bushes on the other. The only way out of the trap was ahead, or back the way the target had come, but the outlaws laid ropes before and after the ambush site, ready to be pulled up into position, effectively penning in the unfortunate friar and his party.

  Bell had sent Robin off with Little John, to the young man’s relief. If it did get violent, John was the best person to be with. They settled down to wait, taking up position in the thick summer undergrowth, at the rear of the ambush spot.

  John took a piece of bread from his pocket, tearing half off for Robin. He began to chew contentedly, although his gaze never left the road.

  “How can you eat at a time like this?” Robin wondered, looking at the bread he’d been handed.

  John laughed gently. “Don’t worry. We’ll have plenty warning when the friar’s near. D’you think Adam didn’t bother sending out a scout?” He tore off another huge chunk of the thick loaf, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Will Scaflock’s gone on to see where the bastard is.”

  Robin grunted sheepishly, and tried his best to chew some of the bread, but his appetite was gone for now. He handed the food back to John and set an arrow to his bowstring, just in case. John laughed again, louder this time, shaking his head and chewing noisily.

  Robin was relieved to find John had been right though, when, a short time later, there was a bird call from along the road and the big man got to his feet, grunting to Robin, “That’s Will’s signal. They’re coming.”

  Robin stood up too, glad to find he wasn’t as nervous as he’d feared he’d be. He was focused on the job at hand, without feeling too frightened.

  Little John pulled an arrow from his belt, and the two outlaws stood ready, hidden by the thick tree they’d chosen as cover.

  A while later they heard a horse-drawn cart creaking along the road and, as it slowly came into sight, Robin felt his pulse quicken as he realised this might not be as simple as he’d hoped.

  The friar was riding a horse. In addition to the noisy cart, which carried a roughly made, but sturdy, wooden box, there were eight hard-looking riders. These men all wore gambesons like Robin’s, for protection, with helmets in seemingly good repair, and long swords at their hips. Every one of them looked as dangerous as most of Adam Bell’s men.

  Robin looked a little nervously at John. The bearded giant looked back, shrugging his massive shoulders. “That friar must have something good in his box, to be travelling with all those guards.”

  As the party reached the ambush point, there was a piercing whistle from Adam Bell, hidden somewhere in the dense foliage, and the ropes at either end of the road were suddenly pulled taut, and tied to the trees, blocking the horsemen’s path. Little John and the other outlaws raced forward silently to pen the friar’s party in, although they stayed close by the thick tree trunks in case they needed cover. Robin followed, gripping his bow so tight he could feel it digging into his hands.

  The friar sat back in his saddle, but didn’t look particularly dismayed by the ambush. Robin was a little worried, though, to see the guards quietly and efficiently take up defensive positions encircling the cart.

  The young outlaw looked quickly at Little John, but the big man just glared grimly at the guards. He’d clearly seen this all before, and Robin again felt himself relaxing a little. Adam Bell knew what he was doing. He must do, after all these years as a robber outlaw leader.

  Just then, Bell himself walked into view, and stood facing the friar. He never looked once at the stony-faced guards who followed him with their eyes. Some of them had drawn short bows and held them aimed at Bell.

  “Get those ropes out of the way. Before we cut you down.” The friar’s words were cool, his voice powerful and controlled, but Robin realised the churchman probably knew this was Adam Bell in front of him. And Bell’s reputation was not a good one, when it came to how he treated churchmen who didn’t co-operate.

  The outlaw leader simply pointed to the cart. “We’re taking that, friar. Those men” – he gestured to the eight soldiers –“can keep their weapons and continue along the way with you.” He spread his feet and put one hand on his sword hilt, staring at the friar.

  The clergyman shook his head. “There are nine of us. Get out of the way and nothing more need be said about this.”

  Adam Bell continued to stare impassively at the friar for another few seconds, before raising his hand and pointing at one of the soldiers. “Will!”

  Bell jumped behind a tree as there was a snapping noise, and a thud. Robin was shocked to see the soldier Bell had single out thrown backwards off his horse, gasping and clawing wildly at the arrow that had hammered into his windpipe. Will Scaflock smoothly dropped his bow and pulled his sword from its scabbard, dropping into a fighting stance, an appalling animal grin on his wide face.

  No one moved for a split second, until the shock passed, and the guards realised what had happened.

  “Damn it, Scaflock!” John grunted, knowing Will could have easily incapacitated the guard with a shot to the arm or shoulder, rather than killing him.

  “Dismount!” one of the soldiers shouted, realising they had no chance while on horseback, penned in as they were, and the rest followed, kneeling beside the cart, weapons drawn.

  Adam Bell’s voice could be heard from behind a tree. “There’s eight of you now, friar!” He laughed coldly. “Now tell your men to drop their weapons and we’ll just take that cart of yours.” He stepped into view again, expertly drawing a beautifully forged sword.

  Robin held his breath, as time seemed to stand still and the friar stared silently at Bell.

  The stand-off was broken as the soldier who had ordered the dismount earlier decided he’d had enough. “Get the bastards!”

  The seven remaining guards charged at the outlaws ringing them, and Robin found himself staring at a wiry, red-haired man, roaring wildly as he raised his sword to bring it down on the young outlaw’s head.

  Robin brought his own sword up, deflecting the powerful blow, as instinct and training took over and, leaning forward, he rammed a knee between his attacker’s legs. The man fell to the floor groaning, as Little John’s quarterstaff hammered down on the back of his head.

  The two outlaws stepped over the unconscious man, looking for other targets, but it was a similar story all around. The friar’s guards, hard as they may have been, were all down, injured or dead. Not one of the outlaws seemed to have taken a scratch.

  Only the friar stood in the way of the cart now.

  “Right, you fat, tonsured arsehole, get out of the way.” Adam Bell strode forward, the outlaws close behind, ready to check the contents of the wagon. “I’m not really a religious man, but I’d rather not have to get too violent with a
member of the clergy. I don’t have a problem with it though, if you push me.”

  The friar was an overweight man, in the grey robes of the Franciscan order, with an open, honest-looking face. As Bell closed on the wagon, suddenly, from the folds of his robe, the friar produced a short wooden club, about a foot long, and, with blinding speed, blasted the breath from Bell’s lungs with a thrust to the guts, and then battered him to the ground with a vicious blow to the temple.

  Everyone froze in shock. Adam Bell lay unmoving on the forest floor, as the friar moved coolly into a fighting stance and, with a small smile, said, “All right then, boys. Who’s next?”

  The sheer violence and precision of the friar’s attack seemed to hold the outlaws rooted to the spot, as they realised this was no normal churchman. Robin could just see Adam Bell’s chest rising and falling gently, so, although he was still alive, he’d likely feel sick for a while when he came to. Robin was impressed with the friar’s courage.

  Little John must have felt the same respect for the hardy Franciscan, as he raised his great voice and ordered the outlaws to hold their positions. “That was good for a fat friar, but you know you can’t fight us all.”

  “No?” The friar cocked an eyebrow. “Do you want to find out, my child?”

  John burst out laughing at this show of bravado. “I’m sure you’d try too, father, but I don’t want any more deaths today. Now put down the weapon and let us take what we came for. You can be on your way.”

  Will Scaflock was shaking his head impatiently during the exchange. “Come on John, what are we waiting for? I can stick an arrow in this fat bastard and we’ll help ourselves. We need to get moving.”

  John rounded on Scaflock, his face red with anger. “Shut your fucking mouth Scarlet! You’re always too quick at killing people. There was no need to shoot that guard in the throat, and there’s no need to cut down this friar.” He turned back to the churchman. “Now move it, you, we don’t have all day and the longer this lasts the more likely he is to use you for target practice.” He nodded at Will in disgust.