Wolf's Head (The Forest Lord)

by Steven A McKay

  The square courtyard was a large, busy place, with liveried servants rushing to and fro between the whitewashed buildings, carrying firewood, water and foodstuffs. The lord’s coat of arms – a magnificent yellow peacock – was displayed on a scarlet flag that blew wildly in the strong wind.

  Wilfred drove the cart over to the wide doorway that led to the undercroft and food stores. The three men climbed down and, under the baker’s direction, began to unload the cart.

  A groom appeared, the gatekeeper having alerted him to their presence.

  “You two are minstrels? Well, I hope you’re better than the last troop we had, lost control of their dancing bear, wrecked half the hall and three of their own performers before they cut the beast down.”

  Allan and Robin exchanged glances. “Well, we don’t have any bears with us, sir, so unless people enjoy our playing so much they become bewitched, there shouldn’t be any trouble.” Allan winked at the bored-looking groom.

  “Anyway,” replied the man, “you’re not hanging around here idle all day, you can earn your keep until dinner time by helping the baker unload his wagon.”

  The two young outlaws nodded obediently, and went back to helping Wilfred with his load.

  Everything was going perfectly.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  After Matilda’s unpleasant experience with Simon Woolemonger, she had been relieved to have seen or heard nothing from him around the village for the next couple of days.

  She had put the incident to the back of her mind, with the hope he had sobered up and forgotten what had happened or, with any luck, he’d gone down to the River Calder himself and fallen in.

  Some of the villagers had teased her about it for a while, but interest had died down as other, fresher, pieces of gossip had come along.

  Matilda and her parents were sitting down to breakfast just before dawn on the Wednesday morning, her mother, Mary, laughing at a story she’d heard about some local boy caught by the butcher trying to steal a leg of beef bigger than the lad himself.

  Matilda’s father was quiet. He’d been upset when he heard what had happened with Woolemonger and took the chance to tell Matilda, again, to give up waiting on Robin Hood and find herself a suitable husband.

  Mary ladled pottage onto their plates from the steaming cauldron over the fire, and set a mug of weak home-brewed ale at each of their places. She had cooked their meal outside, since it was a chilly but nice, clear morning and cooking indoors in a little house such as theirs was an unpleasant smoky job. The family, like most of the villagers, rarely ate breakfast, but the pottage was close to being spoiled so Mary had insisted they eat it while they could – food was too precious to waste, especially with winter so close.

  As the family began to eat, the noise of an excited commotion reached them, and they turned to see what was happening.

  “Oh, Christ,” Matilda’s father muttered, earning a pious rebuke from his wife.

  Coming towards them, through a throng of sleepy villagers, was the new bailiff, Adam Gurdon, mounted on an impressive-looking horse. More than twenty of his men were with him, most of them on foot. All were grim-faced, except Gurdon, who smiled as he caught sight of Matilda.

  “What’s he want, lass?” asked Henry. “Tell us now – if you’ve done something, so we can sort it out.”

  Matilda shook her head. “I haven’t done anything, Da. I don’t know why he’s here.”

  As Gurdon and his men came to the Fletchers’ gate, Matilda caught sight of a figure near the back of the clamouring villagers. Simon Woolemonger. Her heart gave a lurch and she felt the strength leave her legs as the drunkard grinned maliciously and gave her a wave.

  “He’s told them I was talking to Little John,” Matilda mumbled through tight lips. “John came to the village a few days ago to buy supplies. You were out so I sold him some arrows. Simon must have seen us.”

  Her mother groaned, but her father put a reassuring hand on her shoulder and smiled. “Plenty people talk to John Little and no one arrests them. We’ll sort this, don’t fret.” His smile turned to a grimace as he fixed his eyes on the leering Woolemonger. “And that little bastard will rue the day he crossed my family. If John doesn’t do for him, I will!”

  Adam dismounted expertly from his horse, handing the reins to one of his foresters, and let himself in through the gate. His men took up positions outside on the road behind their leader, who smiled again.

  “Ah, this must be Matilda: I’ve heard so much about you. My old acquaintance, that notorious wolf’s head, Robin Hood, was always telling me about you. You’re even prettier than I imagined – no wonder you caught the prior’s eye!”

  The fletcher moved to stand in front of his daughter. “What do you want here at this time of day, bailiff? My girl’s done nothing wrong – none of us have.”

  Gurdon’s smile fell from his face and his eyes turned towards Matilda’s father. “Hello, Henry. Still doing good trade selling arrows to outlaws?”

  “Aye, and I supplied you with plenty when you were their leader, ‘Bell’!”

  Adam’s face had turned red with rage at the fletcher’s impudence and the foresters moved closer to the bailiff defensively, hands threateningly on the short cudgels they had tucked into their belts.

  “No matter, Fletcher, I’m not here for you today,” Gurdon growled, visibly restraining himself. “Perhaps another day. For now…” He looked at Matilda and raised his voice to carry over the watching villagers. “I am here to arrest Matilda Fletcher, for providing aid to the outlaw known as Little John. We have a witness, and you will come with me to Nottingham where you will await trial for this accusation.”

  “Witness?” Matilda spat. “You mean that filthy drunk Simon Woolemonger!”

  Gurdon nodded. “You are aware of who saw you with the outlaw then. That seems a clear admission of guilt to me. Take her.”

  One of the foresters moved in and tied Matilda’s hands. Her father could take no more and lunged towards the bailiff, who moved with lightning speed to deflect the fletcher’s blow, tripping the big man as Matilda yelped in dismay. One of the foresters brought his cudgel down on Henry’s head, and the fletcher lay still on the ground as Matilda tearfully struggled to free herself.

  The villagers were outraged. Loud shouts of protest went up, but Gurdon vowed reprisals if anyone else raised their hands to stop them, and the angry shouts turned to angry muttering.

  “Let’s go,” said the former outlaw, nodding his head in the direction of the main road, the rising sun casting long shadows on the ground, and the men, pushing Matilda in front of them, moved through the gate. They half helped, half pushed the girl up to sit on one of the horses. A burly forester climbed up behind her and grinned at her irate expression.

  Matilda’s mother, Mary, knelt beside her husband, who still breathed, but was out cold. She cradled his head lovingly, tears staining her cheeks. “Don’t worry Matilda! We’ll not let them harm you!” she shouted reassuringly, but in her heart she feared the worst.

  Gurdon placed a foot in his mount’s stirrup and jumped smoothly onto the beast. “Let it be known,” he shouted, “Simon Woolemonger is a witness to a crime. If any of you people decide to harm him, you will be declared outlaws yourselves. And I will hunt you down, as I will hunt down Robin Hood and his men. Woolemonger is under the King’s – and my – protection!”

  With that, the foresters moved off onto the main road through the greenwood, heading to Nottingham with their prisoner.

  Simon Woolemonger, with two friends of his, also known in the village as idlers, stood grinning around himself. He wore a fine new white cloak, no doubt paid for by Gurdon in return for his information about Matilda.

  “Let’s go get a drink, boys,” he laughed. “I’m feeling flush today.”

  Adam Gurdon’s reputation as “Adam Bell” was enough to stop any of the villagers raising a hand against Woolemonger, but the atmosphere was venomous.

  Patrick, the village headman,
came into the garden to talk to Mary and Henry, who was beginning to come around.

  “We must get word to Little John and Robin, Patrick,” groaned the fletcher. “They’re the only ones that can help Matilda.”

  Patrick nodded reassuringly. “I’ll send one of the local boys to take word to the outlaws, Henry. You take care of yourself and…when all this is over with, have no fear: that scum Woolemonger will be run out of the village!”

  * * *

  “I know this isn’t what you want,” Sir Richard-at-Lee told his son. “But there’s no other choice.”

  “Rhodes, though!” Simon muttered. “It’s so far away.”

  Richard nodded sadly. “I know, son. You’ll be fine though, your brother will make sure you settle in, and the Hospitaller lifestyle will suit you. The weather in Cyprus is better than in England too!” He smiled encouragingly, but he was depressed at having to take this course of action just to avoid Despenser’s ‘justice’. They knew Sir Hugh would send his men from Cardiff castle with a summons to trial for Simon, and there would be no reasoning with those men. Richard also knew there was no chance his son would be found innocent of murdering that Wytebelt fellow – Despenser wouldn’t give up his hundred pounds bail monies.

  Simon would hang, Sir Richard would be ruined, and there would be nothing left for his firstborn, Edward, to inherit. It would mean the end for their family.

  Although he loved both his sons equally, Richard felt more protective of Simon. The elder son, Edward, had always been tough – clearly cut out to be a knight from a very young age, always willing and able to take care of himself.

  Simon on the other hand had been much less warlike – more interested in reading and riding his big horse Dionysus than fighting.

  When Edward had left to join his father’s Order in Cyprus, and his wife had died just a year later, Sir Richard became even more protective of his beloved youngest son.

  So, the Hospitaller had decided, with a heavy heart, to send Simon overseas, to join his brother, Edward, and the Hospitallers at their base in Rhodes. Once his son was safely out of the country, far from the grasp of Hugh Despenser, Sir Richard and his sergeant would try to raise money to pay off the new debt to Abbott Ness of St Mary’s by seeking loans from other local lords. And then they would help the Earl of Lancaster in any way they could in his struggle against the corruption that was bringing the country to the brink of civil war.

  Things were looking up in that respect, as the king had recently agreed to exile the Despensers and issued pardons to the Earl of Lancaster and hundreds of his supporters. And yet, although they were supposed to be banished, the Despensers continued to exert great influence over the country, as Sir Richard was discovering now.

  The Hospitaller and his son Simon, accompanied by the gruff sergeant-at-arms Stephen, had ridden out that morning for the docks at Hull, a journey of two days, where the young man could find passage to Cyprus. The letter of introduction his father had written, and his elder brother’s presence on the island, would see Simon inducted as a Hospitaller sergeant-at-arms without any problems. It would be up to him how far he progressed in the Order from then on.

  They wore no mantles, or identifying marks of any kind – their usual Hospitaller eight-pointed white cross against a black background would be a dead giveaway to any hostile pursuers.

  Stephen had hung back on the road, to allow father and son time alone before their parting, but the loyal sergeant was alert for any sign of pursuers. He was disgusted at what had befallen his lord. A Hospitaller knight, basically robbed by their own king’s best friend, and now forced to part from his own child, while looking over his shoulder like a common peasant chased by the tithing for stealing a loaf of bread!

  Thankfully, it was a pleasant autumn day, with a gentle wind behind them, and the road was quiet, with few other travellers. Those they did meet moved deferentially aside, lowering their eyes at the sight of the three mounted and well-armed men.

  They ate a small lunch of blackberries, boiled eggs and bread from their packs, eating while in the saddle to try and get to the port as soon as possible.

  Sir Richard and Simon were sharing a joke together when Stephen suddenly hissed at them to be quiet, turning in his saddle to stare back along the road.

  “What is it?”

  Stephen grunted, his eyes still scanning the horizon. “Thought I heard a shout. Probably nothing. You two mere making so much bloody noise laughing like little girls, makes it hard to hear anything else.”

  Simon grinned. “Christ, man, what did eat for your lunch? Blackberries or lemons?”

  “Ah fuck off”- the sergeant grumbled, then swung back suddenly to look behind them again, pulling his horse to a halt. This time there was no mistake, as the sight of half a dozen mounted men came into view, cantering over the horizon towards them.

  “What d’you think?” Stephen wondered, glancing at his lord and fingering the handle of the mace he had brought along in case they did meet heavily armoured resistance. The crushing power of a mace was much more useful against plate mail than a sword. It looked like it may come in handy now.

  “I don’t know, they’re too far away,” Sir Richard replied, looking to his son in case his younger eyes could see any sign of markings or a livery that would identify the approaching riders but Simon shook his head.

  “We’re outnumbered so it makes sense not to hang around waiting to see if they’re friend or foe,” the Hospitaller decided. “Ride!”

  They kicked their mounts and galloped off, noting with dismay the men behind them were keeping pace. “Shit, they must be after us,” Simon cursed.

  His father shouted in agreement. “We’ll keep up this pace for a while – whoever it is back there must have been pushing their horses to have caught up with us even though we had a head start. They’ll drop back before we do.”

  They rode hell-for-leather a while longer, then allowed their tired horses to slow. Sir Richard’s words proved right, as their pursuers had fallen back and, despite the straight, flat section of road they were on, there was no sign of anyone behind them.

  “At least we know the bastards are after us now,” Stephen muttered. “All we have to do is keep ahead of them until we reach Hull.”

  Sir Richard rode in silence, wondering if his sergeant was right and they should just continue to the port as fast as possible, or try some different strategy to evade their pursuers. Set up an ambush? Pay some locals in the next village they passed to throw Despenser’s men off the scent and in another direction?

  He rejected the ideas – their followers must know their plan to get Simon on a ship out of the country, they wouldn’t be easily diverted, and the idea of the three of them trying to ambush six mounted knights was an unappealing one.

  Stephen was right. Their best bet was simply to reach Hull before Despensers men.

  With a last glance over his shoulder, he spurred his horse again, giving a shout of encouragement.

  “Let’s move!”

  * * *

  The day before Matilda was arrested Robin and Allan-a-Dale ate an exotic (by their standards) meal, in Lord John de Bray’s great hall.

  They had unloaded Wilfred’s cart at a leisurely pace; then, despite the groom’s earlier admonishment, they had spent a restful afternoon practising their minstrel’s act and surreptitiously watching the house’s inhabitants bustle about their business.

  They had not seen the girl they prayed was Will’s daughter, Beth, but Wilfred hoped if the hall was busy enough tonight the girl would be serving tables along with the older servants.

  So, after eating a lavish dinner of salted beef, cabbage and bread, grudgingly served to them by a sullen page boy, Robin and Allan were full and content, although nervousness began to settle on them at the thought of their next few hours work.

  They knew they would have to perform their music well, to avoid being thrown out of the manor house as beggars, but that was almost a minor worry. Now that they were actu
ally here, and realised how many hands would be raised against them should their plan to kidnap Beth go awry, they began to feel a little fear knot their stomachs.

  “Just try to relax,” Robin told his grim-faced friend. “We’ll play for these people, who’ll all, no doubt, wake in the morning with thundering hangovers. They won’t be in the mood to keep an eye on the minstrels from the night before – all we have to do then is bundle Beth aboard the cart and roll out the door.”

  “The guards won’t all be drinking tonight, Robin. They’ll be fresh enough in the morning and they’re the ones I’m worried about!”

  Robin laughed. “We’ll deal with that if it happens. There won’t be guards watching us load the cart tomorrow, and that will be the dangerous part.”

  Allan nodded, but his knuckles were white as he played his gittern. After a few minutes he stopped and said quietly, “What if the girl doesn’t want to come with us?”

  Robin sighed at his friend’s continued black mood. “We’re here now; we have to go through with this right? So stop worrying about it. We need to talk to the girl first and take it from there. For now, just concentrate on playing that gittern for a while so we can give these people something to dance to later on.”

  Wilfred had spent the afternoon talking to some of the other merchants and tradesmen who were delivering goods to the lord’s house, but the big baker joined his outlaw friends now.

  “It’s to be a fine busy feast tonight, boys. They’ll need every available servant to keep the food and drink flowing. You’ll get your chance to talk to Beth then, I’m sure. Just don’t make it too obvious, or we’ll arouse suspicion – she’s still just a wee girl, mind.”

  Eventually, the sun began to go down and pages scurried to light the torches set around the walls of the hall. The enormous room looked hugely impressive to the young outlaws, who had never seen such a big room before. There were fresh reeds on the floor, fine expensive tapestries depicting heroic scenes from history and mythology decorated the walls and the guttering orange flames from the torches cast long shadows over everything. It was a fine place for two minstrels to perform.