A flicker of a smile came to the little girl’s lips and a glimmer of hope flared in her eyes for the first time in months. “Thank you, sirs!” she whispered to them, and walked off to the next table to serve the rest of the mugs on her tray.
“A strong wee lass, Robin,” Allan said approvingly.
“She’s had to be, to survive what she’s been through…” replied Robin, shaking his head at the thought of the hopelessness and fear Beth had suffered for the past three years.
Wilf laid a meaty hand on Robin’s arm and locked eyes with him. “Tomorrow, we set this evil right.”
* * *
Although the outlaw’s camp was a fair distance away from Wakefield, it didn’t take Little John, Much and the youngster, Andrew, long to reach the village outskirts.
“All right, lad, thanks for coming to get us. We’ll sort this out now; you take word to Henry everything will be fine.” He ruffled the boy’s hair and handed him a small silver coin, which Andrew took with a grin and loped off towards the fletcher’s house.
Much thought the best place to find Simon Woolemonger would be the local alehouse. This belonged to Alexander Gilbert and was literally more of a house than a tavern or inn.
The outlaws wandered up and peered in the side window. Sure enough, Woolemonger was inside, a mug of ale before him and two friends at the table with him. They were the only people drinking in the alehouse at that time.
The three were joking noisily as if they hadn’t a care in the world, their drunken laughter filtering through the unglazed window loudly, while Gilbert threw them dark looks every so often.
There seemed little point in wasting time. John wanted to get back to camp as soon as possible in case Robin and Allan returned from wherever they’d gone and wondered where everyone was.
He pushed open the door and strode over to the table Woolemonger sat at. The three drinkers looked up indignantly.
“What do you want?” one asked, just before John’s massive fist slammed into his nose, throwing him backwards off his chair in a spray of crimson. The man lay on the ground groaning.
The second of Woolemonger’s friends fumbled at his belt, presumably for some weapon, but Much moved faster and kicked him hard in the face. The combination of excessive ale and the blow to the head was too much for the man, and he collapsed on the floor vomiting noisily. Much gave him another kick and leaned down to growl in his face. “Stay the fuck down, or we’ll come back for you.”Woolemonger knew many tales about Little John and, while his friends had instinctively tried to defend themselves against the outlaws, Woolemonger had simply frozen in fear as he recognised the giant.
“What do you want with me?” he squealed, eyes wide with fright.
John grabbed him by the throat and hauled him out the front door, where a crowd had gathered on hearing the commotion.
Woolemonger tried to free himself, flailing his legs wildly, but Little John punched him hard in the stomach, blasting the breath from the man, before throwing him into the road where he lay, crying and gasping.
There were cheers from the villagers, but John raised his hands for silence.
“You all know why I’m here,” he said loudly. “This piece of shit here has been telling tales about me, to the bailiff. Everyone knows what we do to people who inform on us.”
Woolemonger spluttered a denial, but John wasn’t listening. He looked around the crowd slowly.
“People that cause me, and my outlaw brothers’, trouble…regret it.” With that he pulled his sword from its leather sheath and pointed it at the man on the ground.
“Wait!” Woolemonger cried. “I can help you. The bailiff knows you and your friends will try to rescue the girl. He’s setting a trap for you!”
John and Much exchanged a worried glance at this, and the big outlaw lowered his sword a fraction.
“Where?”
“The ford at Hampole Dyke,” whimpered the informer, clutching his guts in pain. “Adam expects an attack there, because the bridge has collapsed and it’s an ideal place for an ambush when your friends are struggling through the ford. The bailiff’s going to station his men all around the place and wipe the lot of you out. He won’t even be there; he’s going to continue on the road to Nottingham where he’ll hand over the girl to one of Prior de Monte Martini’s men at his brothel.”
“The prior?” John demanded in confusion. “What’s he got to do with it? I thought Adam was working for the sheriff?”
“The sheriff isn’t interested in the girl; he just wants you outlaws dead or captured, this is nothing to do with him. The prior paid the bailiff to arrest the girl – she’s to be put to work in the prior’s brothel. Gurdon’s expecting to make some money and wipe out your friends when they try to rescue the girl.”
Matilda’s father had pushed his way to the front of the crowd and he spat at Woolemonger now. “This is all your fault, you bastard! None of this would have happened if you’d kept your drunk nose out of it!”
Much grasped Little John’s arm. “Finish this! We need to warn Will and the rest, now.”
The big man nodded, a look of disgust on his normally jovial face. “The fletcher’s right – this is all your fault.” He leaned over and rammed his blade into the drunkard’s heart, impaling the man on the ground. Woolemonger stiffened in shock, staring first at John, then down at the blade impaling him.
There were gasps of shock and fright from some of the villagers, many of whom knew Little John as a gentle giant. This was a side to him they had heard stories of but had never seen before. Some of the children in the crowd began to cry, and their mothers pulled them in close to comfort them.
“That’s what happens to people who betray me or my friends!” John roared as he pulled the sword free, wiped it on Woolemonger’s fancy new coat.
“I thank you all, who trade with us and sell us provisions. We’ll always look after those who help us – but let this be an example. If anyone betrays us, we will hunt them down and kill them.”
John knelt and used his dagger to cut the purse from Woolemonger’s belt. He walked over to Patrick, the village headman, and handed the money to him. “The sot might have already drunk half of the payment he got from the bailiff, but use the rest of it for whatever the village needs.”
Patrick nodded his thanks to John and Much, as Henry Fletcher clapped them on the back. “You two better get moving, and warn your mates. I don’t want any more good men to die because of that scum. You can borrow a couple of our horses – they’re no destriers but they’ll get you where you need to go a lot quicker than on foot.”
Much grimaced; he wasn’t much of a rider, but there was nothing else for it. “He’s right, John, it makes sense. And don’t worry, Henry, we’ll get Matilda back safely, I promise you.”
Patrick gave a shout at one of the villagers and the man hurried off, returning a few minutes later leading two horses saddled and ready to go. “Don’t be beating them,” the man warned, handing the reins to Much and Little John with a glare. “Treat them right and they’ll treat you right.”
The fletcher smiled weakly at the outlaws as they warily eyed their mounts. “God go with you, lads. Help my wee girl.”
They climbed awkwardly onto the palfreys and, with a nod of farewell, kicked them forwards through the crowd of villagers, many of whom shouted thanks up to them for dealing with the hated Woolemonger.
As they urged the horses into a run through the forest, John told Much they would head back to the camp first, in case Robin and Allan had returned. “We’re going to need every man we can get if Adam’s laid a trap at Hampole Dyke.”
Much didn’t reply as he gripped the reins fearfully, praying fervently they would be able to outwit Adam Gurdon.
Behind them in Wakefield the villagers buried Simon Woolemonger in an unmarked pauper’s grave.
* * *
Morning came quickly for Robin and Allan-a-Dale. Wilfred the baker, despite vowing to drink little at the feast, was nursing a han
gover, and was jumpy and irritable as a result.
The two outlaws were annoyed at Wilfred but could do nothing about it.
Having no previous experience of a morning in a lord’s house, Robin and Allan had hoped the place would be quiet before dawn, but many servants were up early, quietly tidying things from the night before. They stepped over sleeping revellers, sometimes carefully, sometimes not so much, depending on whether the revellers had been nice to them during the previous evening’s drunkenness.
More than a few were woken by a servant “accidentally” standing on them. Or kicking them in the bollocks, before dodging out of sight.
“This isn’t going to be as simple as we’d hoped, Robin,” Allan grumbled.
“None of these servants will be paying us any attention. Calm down,” Robin muttered. “Come on, we’ll start loading Wilfred’s cart, and slip Beth on board once we’re nearly done.”
Wilfred had found a couple of ales left over from the feast, and declared himself ready for anything after swallowing them. The two young outlaws almost puked watching the old baker drinking the stale beer so early in the day, but it genuinely seemed to liven the man up, and the three moved into the kitchens to set about loading the wagon.
John de Bray’s steward hurried over as he saw them approach. The irritating little man seemed to have spent the night in his bed rather than drinking and feasting, as he was bright and alert.
“You two. Minstrels!” he shouted. “I want that cart of his” – he jabbed a finger at Wilfred – “loaded up and gone within the next hour, got it?”
The outlaws nodded.
“Will do, sir!” Robin replied deferentially. “Our thanks to you for having us.”
The steward grunted, somewhat mollified by Robin’s servile attitude.
“By all accounts you were passably entertaining last night, but Lord de Bray wants his house cleared by mid-morning, so get a move on. And don’t even think of lifting anything that doesn’t belong to you. We have half a dozen guardsmen here who’ll quickly sort you out. I know your type, and I’ll be watching you like a hawk.”
Allan’s blood ran cold at the steward’s vow, but neither outlaw replied, they simply nodded again and set about loading the cart.
As the wagon slowly filled up with the empty crates and barrels, it became clear they would never smuggle Beth on board without being spotted. There were too many people about, and the steward hovered around the place constantly.
“How the hell are we going to do this, Robin? That bastard steward checks up on us, and everyone else, every few minutes!”
“I know Allan,” Robin hissed. “We’re stuck unless we can get him out of the way. When you see Beth ask her if she can create a diversion. Time’s running out.”
But Beth never appeared. Wilfred overheard two of the serving girls talking, and it seemed Beth had been vomiting that morning and was lying terribly ill in her bed.
The three conspirators began to panic. This was the only chance they would ever get to rescue the little girl and take her back to her father, Will.
“Right, we have to get the steward out of the way and Beth, sick or not, into one of these barrels. Allan, you find the girl. Wilfred, carry on loading the wagon. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Allan groaned, while Wilfred looked queasy.
“Don’t make a commotion, Robin,” said the big baker, “or we’re done for.”
Robin nodded, his hand dropping reflexively to his waist, where his dagger was concealed.
“Let’s go.”
Allan-a-Dale wandered further into the kitchens, looking for open doors, trying to appear as innocent as possible. The place was busy, and everyone had jobs to attend to, so no one paid him any attention.
Robin went through the door the steward had taken a minute earlier. It led to a deserted hallway, with storerooms on each side and the courtyard at the far end.
The young outlaw moved slowly along the corridor, wondering where the steward was, when the man suddenly appeared at the far entrance.
Robin quickly asked for directions to the latrine.
“Latrine?” roared the steward. “It’s not likely to be along here beside the food stores is it? You idiot, get back out there and finish loading that wagon. You can piss when you get on the road to London!”
The steward put his hand on Robin’s arm to shove him back towards the kitchens, but the young outlaw grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted it behind his back while slapping his other hand over the man’s mouth to stifle any cry.
“Struggle, and I break your fucking arm,” Robin whispered, pushing his captive into one of the unlit, fusty smelling storerooms. Warily looking to see no one had noticed them go in, he shoved the steward forward and shut the door behind them.
“If you shout or try to escape, you die.” It was almost pitch black in the cool room, but as Robin drew out his knife the little sunlight that filtered under the doorway was enough to throw the wicked looking length of steel into sharp relief. “Trust me. Now, where does the girl, Beth, sleep?”
The steward looked bewildered, but his eyes flared angrily as he gave directions to the little girl’s sleeping area.
“Thank you,” said Robin, but the furious steward, outraged at being treated like this by a simple peasant, opened his mouth and roared for help.
Robin panicked and without thinking, rammed the point of his dagger into the steward’s belly, more than once. Slowly, he lowered the dying man to the ground.
“I’m sorry. I truly am,” the outlaw whispered in anguish, thankful for the darkness so he couldn’t see the life draining from his victim’s eyes. “But we need to escape and I can’t have you raising the alarm.”
He quickly wiped his blade with shaking hands and piled some sacks of fruit over the steward’s corpse, then made his way back to Wilfred’s wagon as fast as he could, thankful that no one seemed to have heard the steward’s cry for help.
He was relieved to see Allan waiting for him, a small smile on his face as the servants hurried around the kitchen busily, the steward’s absence obviously unnoticed.
“Got her!” Allan hissed. “She was pretending to be ill and watching out for us from her bedroll. Where’s the steward?”
Robin looked miserably at his friend, feeling nauseous and guilty after murdering the nosy official, even though he knew it was the only way they could escape. “Dead. Is the girl on board?”
Allan nodded. They had hidden the girl in a barrel behind the wagon, where no one could see, and loaded it on along with the rest of the empty load.
“We’re ready to go,” Wilfred told them, his red face anxious. “All we have to do now is get past the guard at the gates before anyone raises the alarm.”
The baker climbed onto the driver’s seat and the two outlaws clambered up behind him. They lifted their instruments from the top of a crate where Allan had loaded them, and began to strum a simple tune – more to conceal their nerves than from any desire to play.
Wilfred gave a hoarse “Yah!” and cracked the reins over his two old oxen. As the wagon moved off with a lurch, Robin felt the bile rise in his throat and a cold sensation like pins and needles crawled up his hands and arms.
He put down his citole and prayed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Hampole Dyke was miles away from the outlaws’ camp. Will Scarlet knew the place well enough – they had robbed a few rich merchants and churchmen here over the past two years or so. It was the only place to cross the river for miles, but it was surrounded by trees on either side, so there was plenty of cover to spring an ambush.
When the outlaws came close to the ford they had seen no sign of Adam Gurdon or his foresters. Will assumed he and the other outlaws were in time, so he began formulating a plan to rescue Matilda.
Tuck gently pulled Will aside and asked if Adam knew the area.
“Aye he does, “Scarlet replied. “It was him that planned any robberies we did here – I scouted the land with him myself.�
�
Tuck looked worried. “Don’t you think he might be expecting us to ambush him right here then, Will?”
Scarlet looked thoughtful for a moment, but his lust for revenge lit his eyes like a fire and he swung away from the portly friar.
“He has no reason to expect us to be here. Why the hell would we be? He only just arrested Matilda a short while ago. Why would he think we even heard about it yet?”
Tuck shook his tonsured head in consternation. “You’re underestimating Adam, Will. He’s not a fool – you know that!”
Scarlet began sending the men to positions within the surrounding foliage, shouting over his shoulder at Tuck as he went. “No, he’s not a fool – but he is a traitor, and we’re going to get our revenge on the bastard today. Right lads?”
The men cheered, unaware of Tuck’s misgivings, but as they began to move to their hiding places in the trees an arrow flashed through the dense undergrowth catching an outlaw in the chest, spinning him onto the ground, gasping and clutching feebly at the wooden shaft sticking out of him.
“Ambush!” Tuck cried, running for cover behind a fallen tree as more arrows whistled murderously through the air around them. “They’ve been waiting for us!”
* * *
It seemed to take the baker’s old cart forever to reach the gatehouse, but it was the same young sentry on duty who had let them in the day before.
“Wilfred!” the guard grinned. “Those minstrels you found were all right last night; I fair enjoyed my evening off.”
“Thank you, sir,” Allan smiled, and Wilfred slipped the man an oatcake, glancing around and winking conspiratorially.
“Nothing too sweet or stodgy, Thomas, since you’re no doubt nursing a hangover, same as me, eh?” the baker laughed ruefully. “No eating on duty, mind. I wouldn’t want you getting into trouble with Lord de Bray.”
The guard took the cake with a rueful smile and waved them through. “Hangover? Aye, that I have, Wilfred; too much of his lordship’s watered-down ale!” He squinted up at Robin and Allan. “If you two are passing this way again, make sure you come and play for us, eh? We see too few entertainers these days.” He handed their weapons back to them with a friendly nod.
Wolf's Head (The Forest Lord) Page 16
