Wolf's Head (The Forest Lord)

by Steven A McKay

  The more distinguished wealthy and noble visitors began to file in from their rooms, joining, although not mingling with, the lower classes like Wilfred and the rest who were lucky enough to be there that night enjoying the lord’s hospitality.

  The volume began to increase as the ale and wine was served, then finally, Lord John de Bray himself appeared, accompanied by his wife. She may have been a real beauty in her youth, but her severe features bore a look of such boredom and disdain for everything around her that she was now rather unpleasant to look at.

  “My friends!” Lord de Bray, a fat, jowly man who looked as though he could probably still wield a sword well enough, clapped his hands and the room slowly fell silent. He smiled and spread his arms to encompass the two long tables where the nobles were sitting. He ignored completely the benches and small tables on the corners and around the walls of the great hall, where the commoners, including Robin and Allan, sat. These people were clearly of no interest to the portly lord, only being there out of necessity and etiquette.

  “Please, enjoy the humble feast I have had prepared for you,” he continued. “Drink your fill of the finest wines my cellar has to offer, imported from France and Italy. And,” he smiled widely again as his noble guests cheered loudly at his promise of alcohol, “we are lucky enough to have entertainment this night. Some of you will know my own pet fool, Rahere. A more amusing man could not be found in all the courts of Europe!”

  An old but painfully enthusiastic jester stood and bowed, exaggeratedly, somehow managing to break wind loudly as he bent, which brought more laughter from the already half-inebriated guests.

  “We also happened upon these two strolling players,” de Bray continued, as the jester sat back down on his chair which collapsed theatrically.

  The lord waved into the shadows as Robin and Allan stood, giving smiles and waves around the room.

  “They promise to keep us amused! And if they don’t, well…we’ll set the dogs on them, eh?”

  The guests thumped their mugs on the tables at this, roaring and cheering loudly.

  Lord de Bray smiled wickedly at the two “minstrels”, who had started to feel even more nervous about their night’s work. “Now! Let the feast begin, friends!”

  * * *

  Beth Scaflock had been just five years old when her family were cut down by Lord de Bray’s soldiers. On finding the little girl hiding, terrified out of her wits in a cupboard, the lord had decided to take her home since his wife was always on at him to hire more servants for the kitchen. To all intents and purposes, Beth had become his property, for who could stop him, the Lord of Hathersage?

  She had been given a pallet in the kitchen, in a tiny cupboard like the one she had hidden in while her family was murdered. She slept and spent most of the little free time she had in this tiny space, when she wasn’t doing chores around the kitchen for the cook, a cold middle-aged woman called Joan.

  Beth and Joan were the only two females who lived in the lord’s household, apart from his own wife. Like the rest of the manor houses in England, the vast majority of residents were male. Joan had cut her hair short, like the boys, so most people never even noticed she was a little girl.

  Beth was thankfully left alone for the most part. Lord de Bray had never taken any notice of her again and, once she had learned to do her kitchen duties quickly and efficiently, Joan had stopped beating her so often.

  It was, though, a horrible existence for the now eight-year-old child. Although many of her memories of her previous life had begun to fade, she still sometimes cried herself to sleep when she thought of her mother cuddling her after she’d fallen, or playing with her brother and their pet dog, Sam. She would also cry when she thought of her doting father, Will.

  Although Beth was too young, even now, to understand what a mercenary was, she knew her father could be a violent, terrifying man. Yet he never acted like that around her – he had always made time to play with her when he was home, and her memory of his smiling face, full of joy as they had climbed in trees together and ran through the little stream by their house with her on his back twisted her heart until she felt she would never get over it.

  She had wished for a long time that her father would come and take her home from this terrible house. But he never had, and her tears had, mostly, dried up as the hopelessness of her existence had begun to crush her spirit.

  Tonight, there was a feast, as there often was at the manor house. This night Lord de Bray was entertaining more guests than normal though, and Joan had told her to serve ale at the tables of the commoners.

  The sounds of men and women laughing filtered through the kitchen door – a sound she never shared in any more.

  She joined the serving boys, shoved to the back of the line, being by far the smallest, and waited humbly to carry drinks to the men in the shadowy corners of the hall.

  “Here, you!” A tray was thrust towards her, loaded with wooden mugs of watered-down ale, and Beth took it without a word, turning with practised ease, and went out into the great hall, where the noise of revelry was almost overpowering, even at this early stage of the feast.

  She took her tray into the farthest corner of the room and set it down on a table, as her arms were too small to hold it while handing out the drinks as the other servers could do.

  She saw two young men, both holding musical instruments, watching her as she worked, so she carried her tray to them before they started roaring at her as everyone always did when thirsty for ale.

  “Hello, lass,” said one of the young men. “I’m Robin. This is my friend, Allan, and this is Wilfred, the baker from Hathersage; you’ve probably seen him before.”

  Beth dipped her eyes; she knew not to get into conversations with the people she served, or Joan would have words, or worse, with her, for wasting time.

  “There you go, sirs,” the girl said, eyes still downcast as she placed a mug of ale before each of their places.

  “What’s your name, girl? We’ve given you ours, it’s only polite to tell us yours.” The big man, Robin, smiled warmly as he lifted his mug and took a small sip.

  “Elizabeth, sir. I must be on with my work now or I’ll get in trouble.”

  The three men shared a glance, and the one who had spoken looked around the room warily before saying to the girl, “We’re friends of your da, Beth. Carry on with your work as normal, but be sure to serve us later on.” He winked at her and looked away towards the jester, Rahere, who was cavorting ridiculously around the Lord’s Table to much amusement.

  The little girl’s heart skipped a beat and she felt too weak to lift her half full tray for a moment, but she sensed the need not to draw attention to herself or these two minstrels and their baker companion, so she pulled herself together, gave a small curtsey and moved on to the next table.

  She emptied the tray, filled it with empty mugs and carried them back to the kitchen to be refilled. Her eyes flickered over the three men. The two minstrels seemed relaxed, practising their instruments, presumably in anticipation of performing at the feast tonight. The baker, who she had indeed seen before making deliveries to the kitchen, was happily stuffing his round face with sweetmeats and ale. His eyes turned and met hers, and a memory came rushing back to her, of her father, Will, and this baker, standing together in the local tavern drinking and laughing together as she played happily on the floor.

  A lump filled her throat and she hurried through the door into the kitchen, the sounds of laughter chasing her as the jester cavorted around the room.

  The jokes were ribald, childish, filthy and misogynistic, and Rahere’s audience were in stitches at every fart and punch line. Often the punch line was a fart. Robin took it as a good sign when he saw one man, a noble too, fall right off his chair he was laughing so hard.

  “The crowd are pretty drunk and in a good mood, Allan. We just need to sing a few songs as if we were back at the camp with our mates, and we’ll be fine.”

  Allan nodded gloomily despi
te Robin’s ever-present grin. In fairness, Allan had little to worry about, having performed professionally as a minstrel many times in his past. He could play tonight’s planned repertoire in his sleep. Robin, who, as a youth, had spent much more time practising with the bow or a wooden sword, had more reason to worry about their forthcoming performance. But Robin had a natural flair and charisma that was ideally suited to the role of a minstrel. Allan took comfort from the thought and, as he finished his ale and the time to play approached he felt a calm resolve settle over him.

  “That’s better, Allan!” Robin laughed as he saw his friend finger a fast run on the strings of his instrument.

  Allan smiled. He was actually looking forward to their “show” now. He loved to play for an audience, and this would make a fine story to tell the rest of the outlaws when they got back to camp.

  Just then, Rahere, the jester, his act exhausted, gave a bow and, to hearty applause and cheering, walked off the floor, belching loudly in time with every step.

  There was a short break then, for everyone to get another ale or wine, and to laugh about the funniest parts of Rahere’s act. The steward caught Robin’s eye and signalled the two minstrels to start their performance.

  “This is it, Allan. A few songs, another ale, then back to camp in the morning with a surprise for Will.”

  “Good luck, lads!” Wilfred cheered, supping a fresh ale, and smiling blearily at them.

  “Thanks, Wilf! Just you make sure you’re able to drive that cart tomorrow eh? Take it easy on the drink!” Robin laughed, but his look was serious, and the baker nodded sheepishly, placing his mug back on the table.

  The two outlaws walked confidently onto the middle of the floor, near the lord’s own table, where the torches burned brightest, and began to play.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The other outlaws had gone on with their usual routine in the absence of Allan and Robin, until the young boy from Wakefield, sent by Patrick, the village headman, found them. Or rather, the outlaws found him, wandering around the forest shouting for Little John.

  “What are you playing at, lad? You trying to get yourself arrested by the bailiff’s men, for consorting with criminals?”

  The boy started in shock as he suddenly realised he was surrounded by half a dozen burly outlaws. He had heard or seen no sign of them until John suddenly spoke, almost right in his ear.

  “You have to help,” he stammered. “Matilda’s been arrested!”

  Some of the outlaws knew, and liked, Matilda. Not just because she was Robin’s girl, but they had met her when buying arrows from her father Henry, and her pretty smile won most men over. Even the stone-faced Will Scarlet.

  “What are you babbling about, boy?” Will demanded. “Arrested by who? For what?”

  “Aye, I saw her just a few days ago, she sold me some arrows,” added Little John. “She never mentioned being in any trouble.”

  “That’s the problem,” said the boy, Andrew. “You were seen with Matilda, John, and Simon Woolemonger went an’ told the new bailiff, Adam Gurdon, about it. He came and arrested her right from her own house. Battered the fletcher and warned everyone off going after Woolemonger.”

  The outlaws had heard about their former leader being appointed bailiff of Wakefield but they hadn’t expected him to make a move like this.

  “Who’s this Woolemonger?” Will asked, still looking confused. “What’s his problem?”

  “He’s one of the village drunks,” Much replied in disgust. “Waste of bloody space, someone should have thrown him in the river years ago.”

  The boy nodded agreement. “The bailiff must have paid him for his information about Matilda; he’s going around the village like he’s the lord of the place, paying for his mates and him to drink themselves stupid.”

  “We’ve got to do something about this, John,” said Will, to a chorus of agreement from the rest of the outlaws. Even Tuck nodded his head coldly.

  “He’s right, John,” said the stocky Franciscan friar. “If we don’t do something about this everyone will think they can get away with informing on the people who give us aid. Our supplies will dry up, no one will trade with us in case they have the foresters after them because someone like this Simon informed on them.”

  John nodded his huge head. “I know, lads. This time of year we’ll be needing all the help we can get too.” He looked at Andrew. “Simon Woolemonger needs to be taught a damn lesson. But we need to get Matilda back too, or that bastard Adam will use her as a tool to get at us. Do you know where he was taking her?”

  Andrew nodded. “He told everyone he was taking her to Nottingham. He left a few hours ago.”

  “Were they on foot, boy?” Will asked.

  “Some were, but the bailiff and a couple of others had horses. They put Matilda on one of them with a forester.”

  “Shit!” Will hissed. “How are we going to catch them on foot?”

  There was silence for a few moments as everyone thought about the situation.

  “The ford at Hampole Dyke?” Much wondered, half to himself. “If some are on horseback they’ll have to stick to the main road. If we cut through the forest we should be able to head them off.”

  Will grunted unhappily. “We’ll have to move some if we’re to get there before them, Much.”

  The miller’s son shrugged. “We better get a move on then!”

  “Right. I’ll take the men and we’ll get Matilda back from Adam,” said Will, moving to gather up his weapons. “I’ve a score to settle with the bastard, and this is my chance. You and Much can go pay this Simon a visit.”

  John was reluctant to let the volatile Will Scarlet take charge of something like this, with Matilda’s life at stake, but he knew refusing Will’s suggestion would only lead to an argument in front of the rest of the men. There was nothing for it but to agree.

  “You mind and be careful then, Will. Don’t just rush in waving your sword over your head like a maniac. We want Matilda to come out of this safely. Be as stealthy as possible.”

  Will simply grunted something about not being stupid, and moved off with the rest of the men to start the run to Hampole Dyke.

  “I’ll keep an eye on him, John,” Tuck reassured his giant friend, as he stuffed a handful of arrows into the already straining cord he used as a belt round his grey friar’s robe. “I won’t let him put Matilda in any unnecessary danger.”

  Little John slapped the jovial clergyman on the arm and thanked him. “Come back here when you have her. Me and Much will be back by then anyway – sorting this informer won’t take long. Hopefully Robin and Allan will be back by then too, wherever they are.”

  He grabbed his huge quarterstaff, a foot longer than most men’s staffs; slung his similarly oversized longbow over one shoulder, and stuffed a piece of bread from his pack into his mouth. “Right, Andrew, lad!” he shouted, spitting crumbs at the boy. “Let’s go sort this bastard!”

  * * *

  When Robin and Allan began their act the audience had taken little notice, but after a song or two most people were watching, with more than a few tapping their feet and humming the melodies to old favourites like “As I Lay upon a Night” and “Man in the Moon”.

  The pair had played a selection of upbeat, merry songs, mainly about girls, drinking and fighting, before slowing things down and performing “Alison”, a ballad in a minor key.

  Their voices worked well in harmony, with Allan taking the higher vocal and, as the last chord faded, the lord’s hall erupted in loud applause, with more than a few of the women, and even some men, wiping a tear from their eyes.

  The outlaws stood and enjoyed their moment, bowing to all, and grinning widely at each other.

  The crowd reaction was almost certainly down to the free flowing alcohol and generally happy atmosphere in the hall that night, rather than any musical genius on the part of the two performers, but it hardly mattered. Their ruse had clearly worked. Even Lord de Bray handed them a few marks each with
a grand flourish, and, as they returned to their seats in the shadowy corner of the room, well wishers thumped them on the back and praised their skill.

  Robin laughed and smiled at the compliments, while the normally reserved Allan was on a high. It felt to him like this was one of the best performances of his life, and the grin stayed on his face for the next half an hour.

  Then young Beth appeared at their places carrying two more ales for them, and the outlaws suddenly remembered the real purpose of their visit here.

  “Beth,” Robin began, but the girl cut him off, her face twisting.

  “Why hasn’t my da come looking for me?”

  Both outlaws looked at the ground, embarrassed, feeling the little girl’s obvious pain.

  “Your da thought you were killed along with the rest of your family, lass,” Robin told her, glancing around the room to make sure no one had noticed their conversation with the upset serving girl. No one seemed to be paying any attention.

  “Listen to me. You have to pull yourself together. Don’t attract any attention to us or yourself. We’re going to get you out of here and take you back to Will.”

  The girl placed a mug in front of Allan. “How?”

  “In the morning, we’ll hide you in one of the baker’s barrels, load it on his cart and take you straight out the gate. Will you be missed?”

  Beth shook her head, her greasy brown hair falling around her dirty face. “The kitchen staff will be up early, but the housekeeper, Joan, will be up late drinking and won’t be out her bed ‘til later in the morning. If we leave early I won’t be missed for a while.”

  Robin and Allan nodded and Wilf promised to have the cart loaded and ready to go not long after sunrise.

  “Carry on as normal then, Beth,” said Robin. “But be ready to leave in the morning. We won’t have time to come and find you if you’re not around.”