As it turned out, the father of the young knight Sir Richard’s son had – accidentally – killed in the jousting tournament was a family friend of the younger Despenser. Richard’s son, Simon, had been arrested and was now being held in custody by men acting in the name of the Despenser who, on hearing what had happened from his friend, Charles of Bodmin, had demanded bail monies from Sir Richard of one hundred pounds.
“How am I to pay that?” Richard demanded. “Hospitallers take a vow of poverty when they join the Order. I can’t pay a ransom like that! Why is King Edward allowing this?”
Despite the knight’s righteous anger, the king did not actually have anything directly to do with the imprisonment – Sir Richard just blamed him by extension of his favour for the Despensers.
“This is outrageous!” Sir John de Bek cried indignantly, while others, even the wealthiest, gasped in shock at the enormous bail demands and the room was thrown into a noisy babble again.
“This is exactly why we are here today, my friends,” the Earl of Lancaster shouted as the clamour calmed at last. “Sir Richard-at-Lee isn’t the first innocent man to feel the illegal force of the Despensers’ royally-sanctioned greed, and, unless we stop pissing about here, he won’t be the last either!” He walked around the table, meeting the eyes of those he knew were undecided whether to support him or not. “Will you sit by and allow another of the king’s unworthy favourites to ruin our country? I warn you now – the Scots aren’t the biggest threat our people face. The Despensers are!”
There were angry shouts of agreement, some of them from men who had been undecided at the start of the meeting, and Thomas walked back to stand next to Sir Richard-at-Lee, his eyes fierce. “I will stand beside the commander of Kirklees in the fight for justice against these leeches – will you?”
Sir John de Bek called the assembly to order and asked the clergymen to retire to the rector’s house to consider what they would do, while the lay lords would deliberate where they were. It was another unusual move, copying parliamentary procedure and didn’t go unnoticed by the magnates, some of which were impressed while others were somewhat outraged at what they saw as Lancaster’s arrogance.
When the deliberations were over, the earl was again disappointed by the reluctance of the northern and western lords to agree to his proposals. Although many of the men who had attended the meeting pledged themselves to the destruction of the Despensers, many others – some of whom suspected the rumours of Thomas’s overtures to the Scots may have some truth to them – refused to follow his lead.
The prelates, led by the Archbishop of York, agreed to aid Thomas as best they could against the threat of the Scots, but they decided to reserve judgement on John de Bek’s accusations against the king until the next – official – parliament.
It was not a complete failure, the earl, mused as the gathering broke up and the men made their way home again. Yes, many of the most powerful lords would probably never go against the king, but some new friends had been made today and, he knew, the more support he could muster, the more likely it was the king would take heed of them.
Sir Richard-at-Lee nodded a distracted farewell to Thomas, and the earl pulled him gently aside.
“What will you do about your son?” he wondered, apparently genuine concern written on his long face.
Sir Richard sighed, his eyes heavy with stress and exhaustion. “The abbot of St Mary’s in York has offered to loan me the money to pay Simon’s bail. It’s a massive amount, I fear I’ll never be able to repay it but…I need to get my son out of jail then, hopefully once all this is sorted, Despenser will be forced to return the money. It’s extortion, nothing more!”
The earl narrowed his eyes. Abbot Ness of St Mary’s had not said a word during the meeting – Thomas knew the man was a staunch Royalist, and today had only reinforced that opinion.
“I have no need to know what terms you agreed to the abbot’s loan under,” Lancaster clapped the big knight on the shoulder. “You should be wary of him though – I fear you may be swapping one evil debt for another.”
Sir Richard shrugged and rubbed at his eyes. “What’s done is done,” he muttered. “I must go now to free my son. I thank you for your words in there and, you can be sure, for what little it’s worth – you will have my sword at your side against these bastard Despensers!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The outlaws were happy to take Much into their group. He was good with the longbow, knew the forest well, and his outgoing nature made him popular with the men. Despite the reasons for his joining the gang, Robin was pleased his friend was with them. Although it had taken a few days grieving, Much had finally forgiven him for his father’s murder – the bailiff had killed his da, not Robin. If he hadn’t turned up when he had, Much would be dead now too – Robin had saved his life.
To Robin’s great relief, then, they were still friends.
“What’s the story with Adam?” Much asked one afternoon while they were out hunting together.
“I’m not sure,” Robin admitted. “Everyone’s heard of him – he’s famous. But there’s more to him that he never lets on. Even Little John doesn’t really know the full story. But Adam’s more than just a yeoman turned outlaw. He’s been a soldier at some point.”
Much nodded. “Aye, and he’s been a leader of soldiers too. You can see it in his bearing. All the stories of Adam Bell say he’s a common outlaw, but he’s a nobleman, it’s obvious.”
Again, Robin just shrugged. Much was right – Adam Bell carried himself like a nobleman, fought like a soldier, and was a military tactician. They also knew the stories of Bell had been told around campfires since long before they were born, which should make the outlaw leader at the very least in his sixties. Yet the man looked not much more than forty five summers.
The pair were silent for a while, as they made their way through the trees searching for game.
“Do you think that’s a French accent he’s got?” Much looked at Robin curiously. “He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, I could swear he’s got a funny accent.”
Robin laughed softly, always aware, even subconsciously, of the sounds of the forest and alert against disturbing the natural rhythm needlessly. “You think Adam Bell, the Saxon outlaw hero, is actually a French nobleman?” He shrugged. “Who knows? I just assumed it was a Scottish or Welsh accent he had.” Truthfully, there were so many variations in local dialects throughout the whole of the country, there was no way for most people to tell where a stranger came from, unless widely travelled themselves.
Much didn’t reply. The suggestion that Adam was a noble was clearly absurd. Yet both men couldn’t help wondering what Bell’s real story was.
“We’ll ask Will about it,” said Robin. “He’s closest to Adam. If anyone knows the story, Will . . . will . . . ?”
He looked at Much in mock confusion, and they grinned at each other. Just then a rabbit ran across their path but within a moment both men had pulled and released their arrows.
“That’s another one for the pot!” Much hooted, as both arrows thumped home in their target.
When they returned to camp, Much and Robin found most of the outlaws had already eaten, so they prepared their catch and added it to the big stew pot over the fire.
As they settled down to eat, there was an urgent whistle and, for a split second, everyone froze.
“On your feet!” Will Scaflock hissed to the outlaws, shouldering his bow. The rest followed his example. Robin dropped his bowl of food and hushed Much who had no idea what was going on.
“Someone’s come close to our camp,” Robin whispered to his friend. “Grab your bow, you might need it again.” He hastily kicked the campfire out, covering it to prevent any smoke, and tightened his gambeson.
Will and Little John efficiently directed men to positions around the camp.
The outlaws were silent, and well hidden amongst the thick undergrowth, the fading daylight helping to make the small clearing less notice
able, although the smells of recent cooking would lead any hunters straight to their camp.
Slowly, the sounds of a dozen or so men moving stealthily through the forest carried to the hidden outlaws. Low voices could be heard conversing and some of the men – the sheriff of Nottingham and Yorkshire’s soldiers by their uniforms – stepped cautiously into the clearing, swords drawn and shields held ready.
Again, there was another whistle and the outlaws let fly a volley of arrows. Three of the soldiers collapsed to the forest floor, while a fourth screamed and grabbed at the shaft sticking from his thigh.
“Attack!” The sound of Adam Bell’s voice carried loudly through the evening air and the outlaws fell upon the remaining soldiers.
Much hung back in confusion, not being a part of the well-trained fighting unit, but he watched in frightened fascination as he saw his boyhood friend Robin moving with astonishing speed and efficiency to dispatch one of the sheriff’s men. Much’s eyes swept over the battle, which the outlaws were winning easily, and settled on Adam Bell.
Bell had engaged the soldier’s leader, a tall nobleman, with dark hair and a small, neatly trimmed moustache.
Much could see the noble mouthing the word, “You?” a shocked look on his face as Bell thrust his sword directly at his groin, seeking a quick killing blow. The man parried desperately and shouted something in a strange language; akin to that spoken by the nobles he’d seen visiting Wakefield – French? Much wasn’t surprised when Bell grunted something back, apparently in the same dialect.
The outlaws were finishing off the other soldiers, and Adam Bell didn’t take long to find an opening in his opponent’s defence, raking his sword across the man’s throat and slamming an elbow into his side, knocking him to the ground. The soldier spat a final, defiant sentence at the outlaw leader and then choked, eyes bulging in pain, as Adam Bell thrust his sword into his chest.
Robin and the others were already taking the weapons and armour from the corpses of the soldiers, but Much glanced over and saw Tuck watching Adam Bell, a surprised look on his face, which he quickly masked as he met Much’s gaze.
“Good work, lads!” shouted Adam Bell, wiping his sword clean on his dead opponent’s clothes, and ramming it back into its scabbard. “Get ’em stripped of valuables and dumped. Much – see if you can find yourself some armour and a decent weapon on one of these corpses. Will – you and John with me. We’ve got a prisoner. Let’s find out what these bastards wanted in our forest.”
Normally the outlaws would simply dump the corpses of men they killed in the forest for scavengers to find. But since Tuck had joined their group, he had insisted they bury the dead, in accordance with Christian custom. Although the outlaws were all Christian, they didn’t enjoy digging holes for people who had tried to kill them, but Tuck was insistent and his personality was such that the men found themselves complying with his wishes.
Tuck himself never lifted a spade, but stood at the side offering blessings, and promising the cursing gravediggers rewards in heaven for their piety.
By the time the sheriff’s men had all been buried in very shallow graves, Adam Bell had finished interrogating the prisoner – a straggler, captured as he took a piss, by Bell himself. Adam had let the man go after questioning, to carry the news of the outlaw’s triumph back to Nottingham. Every victory like this added to their legend.
“They were after you, Master Much.” The outlaw leader took a long drink of ale from his cup as he spoke but it was Robin he fixed his gaze on. “And your big mate here. Seems the prior sent some men to Wakefield to question you and your family, and none of them came back.”
Robin nodded. “That’s right, you know that Adam, we told you what had happened.”
Bell grunted. “You told me there had been a fight. The way that soldier told it, you single-handedly carved up the bailiff and two of his best fighting men. Problem is – you didn’t kill all three of them like you thought. One of them lived long enough to be found, and he gave a description of you.” He grinned and raised his cup high. “I doubt we’ve heard the last of this either – those weren’t just foresters, they were the sheriff’s own soldiers. You’ve got the prior and the sheriff pissed off now, lad!” The other men cheered and raised their own cups in salute to Robin.
The young outlaw smiled nervously, and took a pull of his own ale, but could take little satisfaction from his leader’s apparent pride in him. He had killed another man in the fighting tonight, but it didn’t feel noble, or mighty. What worried Robin was the fact that this time hadn’t felt horribly wrong, as it had when he slaughtered the men attacking Much. Although he hadn’t gained any pleasure from tonight’s violence, neither did he feel like throwing up, as he had after he rescued his friend.
Killing was just something that had to be done. Robin was shocked as he realised he was desensitized to the brutality of the outlaw lifestyle already. He looked at Tuck and was surprised to find the friar gazing back knowingly.
The rest of the men settled down to drink and enjoy their night, knowing the soldiers would not return for at least another day or two, by which time they’d be long gone to another part of the massive Yorkshire forest.
Tuck came over and sat beside Robin, chewing noisily as he tore another chunk from the leg of roasted venison he carried.
“I thought monks were supposed to live a life of austerity, Brother Tuck.” Robin was annoyed at the man for imposing himself on him, but regretted his words instantly, as he felt a genuine friendship for the clergyman.
Tuck just laughed loudly, and took a long drink from his wine cup. “As you may have noticed, Robin, I’m not exactly the most orthodox clergyman you’ll meet. And I’m a friar, not a monk.” He winked and patted his large stomach as he took another bite of his venison. “I am a man of God though – if you feel the need to confess any sins, or just to talk, I’m here for you my son.” He squeezed Robin’s wrist and the sincerity in his eyes gave the young outlaw some comfort. The men may have been forced to live as thieves and killers, but they were bound to each other by friendship.
“No confession, Tuck, thank you. I’m doing what I can to survive, like all of us. I just can’t take pleasure in killing.”
Tuck nodded. “That’s good. When a man loses himself in blood lust, he becomes nothing more than an animal.”
Robin glanced over at Will, and Tuck followed his gaze. “Don’t be too quick to judge that one, Robin. Who knows what he’s suffered in his life to make him embrace violence so readily? I see a loyal and, deep down, good man, in Will Scaflock.”
Robin was surprised to hear the friar defending Will, but shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe you’re right. He’s a good man to have on your side anyway.”
The two men sat quietly for a while, eating and drinking, and enjoying the banter and songs of the other outlaws round the fire. It was a cool, clear evening in the forest, and Robin felt the stress of recent days drain away until he felt as happy as he had since becoming an outlaw.
As the men finished a ribald song, Tuck crossed himself in mock disgust, and Much came over to sit beside them. He looked around to make sure no one else was listening and said to Tuck, “So, what did that soldier say to Adam?”
For the first time since joining them, Tuck looked uncomfortable. “What soldier?”
“The one he killed, the captain of the sheriff’s soldiers. He shouted something at Adam in some funny language. French maybe? You can speak French can’t you? You clergymen can speak all sorts of languages. That soldier looked like he knew Adam.”
Friar Tuck sighed heavily, nodding. “Yes, I can speak French, Much. And yes, that’s the language Adam was talking in.”
Robin was just as curious as his friend now. “What did he say then?”
Making sure Bell was well out of earshot, Tuck looked at the two younger men grimly. “The captain knew Adam all right. But from where, I have no idea. Before he killed him, the nobleman told our leader he would burn in hell for his betrayal. Whatever
that might have been, who knows? He called him ‘Gurdon’. I assume that’s his real name.”
Much looked confused, but Robin was nodding his head. “This makes sense. Adam Bell should be older. In all the stories he was just a yeoman too, but this man leading us is obviously a trained soldier – a knight. This explains how he’s got us all working together to fight like a unit: it’s second nature to him to train and lead soldiers.”
Tuck agreed, but Much still looked puzzled. “That may be so, Robin, but if he’s really someone else, why’s he going around the forest telling everyone he’s Adam Bell? It doesn’t make sense.”
The rest of the outlaw band took up another loud song, ale and wine and the high of their victory over the soldiers tonight making them merry.
Tuck helped himself to another swig of his own wine and looked earnestly at Much. “It’s brilliant, what Adam’s done here. Think about it. If an outlawed noble –a knight – was to look for help in the villages around Yorkshire, what do you think the people would do? They’d be straight to the Sheriff. Bell, or Gurdon, wouldn’t last a week without the help of the locals. But the people of Wakefield know who Adam Bell is. They’ve all heard the tales round campfires just like this one. He’s a hero. People want to help a man like Adam Bell – it’s one in the eye for the nobles.”
“You’re right.” Robin nodded at Tuck. “But if this is all true, where’s the real Adam Bell? And how did a knight or whatever he is, like…him-” he nodded towards Adam, “manage to get everyone to believe he was really a folk hero?”
Tuck had been thinking about the same questions ever since he heard the sheriff’s soldier shouting out Gurdon’s real name. “I can’t tell you where the real Adam Bell is. For all I know he never existed except in folk tales. Have you ever seen Adam Bell?”
Robin and Much shook their heads.
“Do you even know what he was supposed to look like? How tall was he? Did he have a beard or clean shaven? Blue eyes or brown?”
Wolf's Head (The Forest Lord) Page 8
