Wolf's Head (The Forest Lord)

by Steven A McKay

  Will Scaflock was nominally Adam Bell’s second in command, but in practice, the men followed Little John when Bell wasn’t around. Scaflock was a bitter man, earning the nickname “Scarlet” amongst the outlaws as a result of his bloodthirsty temper and eagerness to use violence on anyone who got in his way. John, although a hard man, was well liked by the men, and his sheer physical presence was normally enough to cow even Will.

  The friar glanced coldly at the muttering Scaflock and nodded his head in resignation. “All right, wolf’s head. You win. Take your prize.”

  Robin let himself relax a little as the churchman dropped his club and went to check how his companions were.

  A couple of the outlaws collected the ropes from the ambush site, some of the others rounded up the mercenaries horses to sell in the outlying villages, and Will Scaflock climbed nimbly into the driver’s seat on the cart. John and Robin gingerly lifted Adam Bell, who was now groaning quietly, up behind Will, laying him out as comfortably as possible beside the big wooden chest.

  The robbery had taken longer than Robin had realised, and, despite it being only late afternoon, the light was beginning to fail as the heavy grey rain clouds continued to hide the sun.

  “It’ll be too dark to check the cart properly tonight,” Little John decided. “We’ll search it tomorrow, once Adam’s awake.” With a gesture, he directed them back to camp with their prize, but he placed a big hand on Robin’s arm as the other outlaws moved off.

  “Wait with me for a bit, Robin,” he rumbled. “I want to talk to this friar.”

  As the wagon, with its new, outlaw, escort moved off, John and Robin, still with weapons warily drawn, walked over to the clergyman.

  “How are they?” John asked.

  The friar shook his head sadly. “Eight men. Six of them dead. Two unconscious, although they should be all right.” Robin was glad to see the red-haired man who had attacked him was one of the lucky ones still alive.

  Little John shook his huge head. “I’m sorry about them, friar, I truly am.”

  The Franciscan grunted, glaring up at John. “Maybe you are, but I’m sure you won’t be kept awake at night with your sorrow.”

  John didn’t reply. The friar had it right. He didn’t enjoy seeing men die, but an outlaw’s life was a violent and dangerous one, and John had seen more than his share of death. He’d sleep just fine tonight, like the friar said.

  “All right, Robin, let’s be off.” John turned with a farewell nod to the friar and began to follow the other outlaws.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  Again, the churchman stopped John and Robin in their tracks. “What d’you mean?” Robin asked.

  “I’m coming with you,” the friar repeated, tucking his club back under his robe.

  “Why the hell would you want to do that?” John burst out. “We’re outlaws!”

  The friar walked past the two men and followed the creaking cart. “You leave me no choice. I was taking that cart to the Prior of Lewes, John de Monte Martini. The prior hates me. I won’t bore you with the details, but he’d use any excuse to make my life a misery. I can’t turn up and tell him I was robbed and lost all his money. He’d blame me – have me locked up, the devil.”

  Little John was completely lost for words. Robin, genuinely liking the overweight clergyman, grinned. “He can fight, John, that’s for sure. And I know myself what a bastard that prior is – it’s his fault I’m even here. What harm would it do to let the friar come with us for now?”

  The massive outlaw shook his head in disbelief, but with a shrug of his shoulders relented. “Very well, you can come with us. You better hope God and all his angels are smiling on you when Adam wakes up puking his guts out, though, and finds you sitting in our camp. He’ll probably let Scaflock cut your balls off.”

  “Better men than him have tried,” the friar laughed confidently, striding through the green undergrowth.

  “Where did you learn to fight?” Robin wondered, hurrying after the portly clergyman, pushing branches and leaves out of the way as he went. “And what’s your name?”

  The friar’s blue eyes glittered as he turned towards the young outlaw. “I wasn’t always a man of the cloth, lad. And you can call me Tuck.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Ride!”

  At the command the mounted men kicked their heels in, urging their horses forward, trying to build momentum behind the wooden lances couched under their arms.

  The spectators – well-to-do men, women and children of Glamorgan – filled the benches of a wooden stand running the length of the lists. Cheering gleefully and clad in over-stated finery of wonderful colours each had their own favourite, often chosen for no better reason than the combatant’s livery or place of origin.

  The horses thundered down the field, sending great clumps of damp grass flying as they tried to gain as much momentum as possible.

  Banners and flags of every hue were held aloft as the audience cheered and sang in support of their chosen combatant.

  The blunted lance of one man hammered off the shield of his challenger and the crowd cheered at the victory. The two knights returned to their tents with nothing badly injured other than pride.

  Taking the field that day in his first jousting tournament was Simon, youngest son of Sir Richard, Hospitaller Commander of Kirklees.

  Simon was a big man, just twenty years old, with the same black hair and almond eyes as his father and his older brother Edward. He had never trained with a longbow or quarterstaff – as a young teenager, Simon had spent his time training on horseback, clad in chain or plate mail, and wielding a sword and shield.

  Or a great lance, as he held now, looking nervously through the visor of his helmet down the lists at his opponent, Edmund Wytebelt, son of the wealthy Charles of Bodmin.

  The lances were tipped with wooden blocks to make them less lethal, but Simon still felt a sense of trepidation as the sounds of the expectant crowd filled his ears.

  A man stood in the middle of the list holding aloft a yellow flag, and, as he dropped his arm with a flourish, Simon gritted his teeth, raised his lance, and kicked his great white charger, Dionysus, forward.

  His eyes narrowed, and the sound of the crowd faded so all he could hear in his helmet was his own gasping, excited breath, and the thunder of his horses hooves towards his adversary.

  Edmund Wytebelt, clad in a livery of red and blue checks over his gleaming armour, the pure white belt that gave him his name tied gaily round his waist, filled Simon’s vision and the young northerner, adrenaline coursing through him, grinned in anticipation, all his nerves and trepidation momentarily forgotten.

  The spectators’ cheers and whistles grew in volume, reaching fever pitch as the knights closed in on each other at a terrific speed, their horses’ eyes bulging, teeth bared and legs blurring while the riders, armour clad and helmeted as they were, seemed weirdly motionless.

  Driven along on his incredibly powerful equine projectile, Simon raised his lance and, fixing his eyes on his opponent, pointed the heavy wooden weapon at the target he visualised on Edmund Wytebelt’s chest.

  There was a tremendous bang, and the next thing Simon knew he was lying flat on his back, staring up at the wonderfully sunny sky through the small slit in his visor, stunned.

  Slowly, it dawned on him he was still alive, although his head ached a little. And he was lying on the grass rather than sitting on his horse. But at least I’m alive, he thought, as he rolled onto his side with some difficulty, his armour being enormously heavy, and tried to see what was happening.

  His squire, Alfred, a young boy of twelve from Kirklees, was already beside him, although he hadn’t noticed the lad’s approach.

  “Where’s Edmund?” Simon asked, still squinting through his visor and seeing his opponent’s horse standing, rider-less, chewing the grass at the side of the tilting field contentedly.

  Alfred helped the young knight remove his helmet and Simon noticed at once where hi
s opponent was.

  Like him, Edmund had been thrown from his mount onto the hard ground. Unlike him, Edmund had taken more than a glancing blow to the helmet.

  “Is he alright?”

  Alfred helped his master to his feet, the pair of them straining to lift the weakened and stunned armour-clad young man from the floor.

  “Is he alright?” Simon repeated, louder this time, glaring at his squire.

  “Not really, my lord.” Alfred shook his head, looking around in consternation as armed soldiers converged on them. “He’s dead. You killed him.”

  * * *

  “Get up, boy. Hurry!”

  Robin’s eyes snapped open as a rough hand shook him awake. He had been on guard duty during the hours before sunrise and felt like he’d only just fallen asleep he was so tired.

  “God’s bollocks, what is it?”

  Matt Groves gave him a sour look. “We’re moving camp, get your things together, fast, and help us shift all our gear.”

  Looking around Robin could see the rest of the outlaws preparing to leave, and, panicking, he jumped to his feet and hastily strapped on his weapons. What’s happening? Have we been discovered?

  Matt walked off without any further explanation, but Little John wandered past just then, a huge pack of gear tied to his broad back.

  “John! Why are we moving? Have we been found?”

  John patted the younger man on the back with a reassuring smile. “Calm down, man, what’s the panic?”

  “Matt just woke me and told me to get my things, he never said why. I thought something bad had happened.”

  “Aye, well, he’s just messing with your head again, lad,” the giant grunted with a scowl in Matt’s direction. “It’s nothing to worry about – we move camp like this all the time. It makes it harder for the law to find us if we don’t stay in the same place for too long.”

  Robin carried on stuffing his things inside his blanket and tied it shut before looping it around his shoulder. “No one mentioned we were going to be moving,” he grumbled.

  John laughed and led Robin towards the middle of the camp where the rest of the men were gathering. “Generally, none of us ever know when we’ll be moving. Adam decides, but he doesn’t tell anyone until the day he wants us to leave. Keeps the men on their toes, and means none of us know where we’ll be from one week to the next if anyone gets captured.”

  “Adam?” Robin yawned and wiped grit from his eyes, feeling like he needed another couple of hours rest. “Last I saw him he was groaning and senseless on the back of that cart.”

  John grinned. His massive, hairy, face, which could be so incredibly intimidating when he was angry, looked almost childlike as his brown eyes sparkled at Robin good-naturedly. “He woke up during the night. Decided we’d been here long enough. He’s probably expecting that box of Tuck’s to be holding a lot of money. If it is, people will come looking for it, so – safer to move to a new camp.”

  Sure enough, Bell stood in the centre of their camp, directing the men and looking none the worse for Tuck’s beating.

  With a last look around to make sure nothing had been left behind, the men moved off to the east behind their leader.

  * * *

  As it turned out, the new camp site Adam had chosen wasn’t that far from the old one – just an hour and a half’s walk, the stolen cart groaning behind them the whole time. Within another hour and a half the outlaws had erected sturdy new shelters to sleep under, and found lookout points high in the trees to make sure no one stumbled upon them.

  Setting up the iron cooking frame over a fresh fire-pit, Will had sent a couple of men to go and find some meat for the big pot.

  The cart they had stolen from Tuck and his retinue contained many religious and historical texts, which Bell’s men had no interest in, most of them being illiterate, but also in the cart was a very large sum of money.

  Friar Tuck, whom Bell appeared to have forgiven for knocking him out, told the outlaws the money was to have been a gift to the prior, John de Monte Martini, from Archbishop Melton in York, ostensibly to help renovate the local churches, but Tuck guessed it would mostly be used by the prior on his personal ventures.

  “Like his brothel?” Robin spat into the campfire, still seething weeks after the prior’s threat to Matilda.

  Tuck nodded gently. “Amongst other things I suppose, aye.”

  Matt Groves gave a crude laugh and rubbed his crotch suggestively. “I might just visit that brothel of his – it’d only be right. At least he’d get some of his money back.”

  The outlaws joined in the laughing and joking, although none of them would genuinely venture into the city on such a frivolous errand, especially Groves, one of the most wanted men in Adam Bell’s group.

  Robin was pleased at getting one over on the hated prior, but the men’s talk had brought back memories of Matilda. He quietly slipped away from the camp, moving deep into the forest for some time alone with his thoughts.

  * * *

  Matilda’s mother, Mary, slammed the wooden plate down on their table, making the girl jump and her father grumble irritably.

  “You’re sixteen now, girl. Well past time you were wed. Every other girl in the village your age has a husband, apart from that Clara.”

  “God have pity on the man that weds her,” muttered Matilda’s father. “Face like a cow’s arse.” He winked good-naturedly at his daughter, who stifled a laugh as he shovelled another spoonful of pottage into his mouth.

  “Shut up, Henry! I’m being serious here.” Mary took her own seat at the table and helped herself to a piece of bread, glaring at her husband.

  “I don’t want to wed any of the village boys, ma.”

  Through another mouthful of dinner, Henry asked, “What about that Richard lad, the one that we saw working in the fields today, arms like tree trunks?”

  Matilda shook her head. “Ach, he’s nice enough, but he’s a big oaf. Remember, he set fire to his own house last year when he was drunk? The fire burned down two of his neighbour’s houses as well before it was put it out. Anyway, he’s been with half the village girls already.”

  “Well, you better lower your standards, soon,” her mother told her. “Or there’ll be no young men left for you. You want to be a spinster all your life?”

  “No, Ma I don’t! I’ll get married when I’m ready!” The girl took a sip of ale, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “If that prior hadn’t…”

  “For God’s sake girl, you can’t hang around here hoping Robin Hood comes back for you! Even if he does, he’s an outlaw. You run off with him and you’ll be an outlaw too. You know what the tithing would do to you if they caught up with you?”

  Matilda knew only too well what would happen if she was declared an outlaw, she’d gone over this a thousand times in her head, since the day she kissed Robin goodbye.

  “Drown you, that’s what!” Mary finished the last of her meal and sat shaking her head at Matilda, but her voice softened as she carried on. “Forget Robin. He was a good boy, would have been a good husband too. But he’s as good as dead now. Right, Henry?”

  The big fletcher nodded reluctantly. “Your ma does have a good point, lass.” Matilda dropped her eyes to the table, but Henry could see the tears glistening there. “Maybe Robin will be pardoned though,” he smiled hopefully at his beloved daughter. “It happens often enough. If that prior dies or the parish is taken on by another clergyman . . . well, Robin might be able to come back to Wakefield then.”

  Matilda looked up at her father and broke into a bright smile that lifted his heart. Her mother told him to shut up again.

  * * *

  “You’re coming with me, Hood.” One of the older outlaws, a wiry, grey-haired man known as Harry Half-hand on account of having a hook instead of a left hand, grunted at Robin, with a grin. “Adam’s heard there’s some rich lady travelling to Pontefract with a big escort, so him and the rest of the lads are heading there. Me, you and Arthur here are headi
ng for Watling Street to relieve a merchant of his – much lighter – purse.”

  Robin hastily shrugged on his gambeson in surprise as the main body of outlaws marched from their camp, Little John giving him a cheery wave in farewell.

  “Just the three of us?”

  “Aye,” Harry nodded, scratching his ear with the blunt part of his hook. “It’s an easy job. Merchant with a single guard, against the three of us.”

  Arthur laughed as he came over to join them. He was a stocky lad, not yet twenty, with greasy brown hair and most of his teeth missing. Robin liked him a lot – he always seemed to have a smile on his filthy face. “Aye, I’d rather be doing this than going after that lady. The boys are saying she’s got a dozen guards with her! Fuck that!”

  “Fuck that right enough,” Harry Half-hand grinned in reply, and strode off towards Watling Street, which was the name for the great old Roman road that stretched from one end of England to the other.

  The trio reached the main road before midday. Even though the sun hadn’t yet reached its zenith, it was a scorching hot June day, and the outlaws were glad to find a sheltered spot to await their prey.

  Still, Arthur had a short attention span and started to complain after a while. “How much longer are they going to be?” he grumbled. “I’m bloody roasting here.”

  “How long’s a piece of string?” Harry growled to a blank look from the gap-toothed young outlaw. “If they left their lodgings near Ferrybridge at dawn they should be here any minute. So shut up and watch the road.”

  As he stopped speaking the sounds of a rider approaching reached them. “Robin, you watch the merchant. Arthur, you watch the guard on the far side of the road. I’ll take the other guard, nearest me. Okay?” The two young men nodded and Harry gestured Arthur to take up a position on the opposite side of the road. Robin was sent forward ten paces to hide in a dense clump of gorse, the plants’ bright yellow flowers almost glowing in the bright sunshine.