Wolf's Head (The Forest Lord)

by Steven A McKay

  Adam Gurdon’s body was loaded onto his horse, while Robin and Much inexpertly mounted the two horses the foresters had been riding.

  “Be careful, Robin,” said Matilda, quietly.

  He nodded. “We won’t be long. Then tomorrow we’ll take you home to your ma and da.”

  The girl’s eyes filled with tears again and she forced a smile as Robin and Much rode off towards Nottingham, the bailiff’s mutilated body strapped tightly to the horse he had ridden so proudly into Wakefield earlier that day.

  * * *

  Although Robin had told Tuck to take Will back to the outlaws’ camp, the friar knew that was a death sentence for the wounded Scarlet. They only had rudimentary medical supplies at camp and, although Tuck was fairly certain Will would not survive no matter what aid he received, he felt it his duty – to Beth if nothing else – to seek out the best help possible.

  Allan-a-Dale and the youngster Gareth, outlawed for stealing food from a chapel for his sick mother, carried Will’s stretcher through the forest, with Tuck taking turns to relieve one of the other periodically.

  “Obviously, this isn’t leading to our camp, Tuck,” Allan noted after a couple of miles. “Where are we going?”

  “Kirklees Priory,” Tuck replied, wiping sweat from his tonsured head with the sleeve of his grey robe. “The nuns there have a better chance of saving Will than we do. The convent has skilled surgeons, and medicines that will help him.”

  The friar felt guilty as Beth looked towards him, her face alive with hope. He had seen too many sword wounds over the years, and never had he seen a man survive one as grievous as that which Will had sustained.

  He mouthed a silent prayer to St Francis, and gave the little girl’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

  “How much further?” Beth asked him.

  “We’ll reach there just after sunset, lass,” Tuck replied. “Do you need a rest?”

  Her small face grew determined and she straightened her shoulders. “No. Let’s get there as fast as we can.”

  Tuck nodded and gave her an encouraging smile. It was obvious Will’s daughter was struggling – she’d spent the past three years cooped up in a house. True, she had worked hard every day, but long distance travelling, indeed any travelling, other than between rooms in the manor house, hadn’t been part of her routine. Tuck was glad she was still little – he knew she would need carried soon.

  It was going to be a long hard journey to Kirklees Priory for them all.

  * * *

  It was sometime after the sun had set, and the constellation of the dragon looked down on the small party, when they finally reached Kirklees. Tuck had carried Beth through the dark forest for the last mile, her short legs and undernourished body having in the end given out. She had fallen asleep in his arms. Although he was a portly man, who ate and drank too much, the friar was as strong as an ox. Still, his arms ached terribly as they hammered on the door of the priory.

  Allan-a-Dale and Gareth were as exhausted as Tuck. They were hard, fit lads, used to physical exertion and forced marches, but the fast pace they had set, along with the burden they carried, meant aching backs, arms and legs. They were glad when a young nun opened the great wooden door and invited them in once Tuck had explained – after a fashion – their predicament.

  She had looked at Will, pale on the stretcher, then Beth, exhausted in the large friar’s arms, and waved them inside, promising to fetch the abbess.

  When the abbess came, she led them to a small room and bade them place Will on the bed there. Beth drowsily insisted on staying with her father, so the nuns brought her a blanket and the little girl fell asleep again in a chair by Will’s bedside.

  The men were shown to a sparsely furnished chamber with four beds and little else inside its grey stone walls. It was cool and, to men used to sleeping on the forest floor, hugely comfortable. They were brought a little bread and cheese each, with cool water to wash it down.

  Allan and Gareth, having carried the stretcher for most of the way, ate their small meal gratefully and quickly fell asleep, completely drained.

  Tuck sat a while in the small chapel, saying another prayer for Will’s well being. The abbess came and questioned him there, about Will and how he came to be so horribly wounded, but she seemed to care little for the answers, or the truth of them. She knew very well they were probably not entirely true.

  Tuck simply claimed bandits had attacked Will and his daughter in the forest, and he and his two friends had found them as they made their way along the road to Nottingham.

  “You don’t expect him to survive do you?” she asked.

  Tuck shook his head sadly. “I’m surprised he isn’t dead already, truth be told.”

  The abbess agreed. “We have cleaned the wound but I have no doubt he has internal damage which we cannot heal. What will happen to the girl when he dies? Where is her mother?”

  “She told us her mother was dead, but she has an uncle in Wakefield. We will take here there when…if…her father dies.”

  The nun nodded. “I won’t keep you any longer, you should get some rest yourself – you must be worn out. It was very good of you and your friends to carry them all this way…” She gave him a calculating look, and he burst out laughing.

  “I expect a reward!” he smiled. “In heaven…Although, if you have any spare communion wine around, that would be pleasant indeed.”

  “You’re pushing your luck, friar, you shouldn’t even be in here,” the nun snorted, surprising him with her knowledge. “It’s against the Rule of your own Franciscan order: ‘Brothers should not enter the convents of nuns.’”

  She wandered off, shaking her head sternly but when Tuck returned to the chamber Allan and Gareth were asleep in he found a jug of poor quality, yet strong wine next to his own bed.

  As he felt the bitter liquid begin to relax him, he mouthed another prayer: Mary, mother of our Lord, help Will, and little Beth, whatever happens during this night…

  Then at last, he fell asleep.

  * * *

  Will Scaflock was dying. Indeed, he should have been dead already – would have been dead already if not for one thing.

  In some dark, hidden corner of his subconscious mind Will knew he had heard his daughter’s voice before he had blacked out at Hampole Dyke.

  Before today he would have embraced death as a release at last from his tormented life, but now, his little girl’s face filled his soul. His body would not give in to death so easily.

  The nuns had known Will was dying, from the evil smell coming from his wound. They had cleaned it as best they could, and stitched it up with a healing poultice, but they knew that smell. They knew the little girl clutching the man’s hand would, in a few hours, maybe less, be left without her father, despite their prayers.

  Beth knew none of this. Her da looked quite peaceful lying in the bed. She was sure he would be fine: he was strong, a fierce warrior; nothing ever hurt her da!

  Then he began to turn blue, and his hand started to feel cold and clammy, and Beth began to wail, fresh tears streaming from her brilliant blue eyes.

  Consciously, Will Scaflock knew nothing of this. Yet, as his ruined body lay comatose within the great stone walls of the priory, he dreamt – a more vivid dream than he had ever had before.

  His wife, Elaine, came to him. She looked as she had in life, but she carried a lantern which only served to light her dimly. All around her was darkness.

  “You’re a fool Will Scaflock!” she chided him with a smile. He had no strength to argue, and knew she was right anyway. “But you have a part to play in this yet. You mustn’t give in to death just yet. Fight it, Will, fight it for Beth!”

  His wife seemed to come closer to him and she placed her hand on his side. Without looking down, Will knew there was a terrible gaping hole in him, yet as Elaine touched the wound he felt something…a strength, or force, coursing through him.

  He grinned as the power filled his soul and he raised his eyes to
look at the woman he had loved since the day he had first met her.

  But it wasn’t Elaine looking back at him. As he watched, her face seemed to shift and change in the darkness, until another face Will knew was staring back at him: Robin Hood, his face set in stony determination, gazed into his eyes. Yet it wasn’t quite the Robin he knew: the face was somehow older, somehow different, somehow more…commanding, Will thought.

  By his bedside, two nuns had come running when Beth started screaming in despair, and they watched in wonder as Will’s blue lips slowly began to turn red again, and his grey flesh became a healthy pink.

  In his fever dream, Scaflock stared at ‘Robin’. “Leave me alone, Hood. I’ve nothing to live for. I can go and be with my family, with Elaine. I want to die!”

  His skin slowly turned blue again.

  Beth had not noticed the change in him and continued to cry the whole time, heart broken. As she laid her head down against Will’s face, her tears rolled onto his pale cheeks. “Daddy!” she cried. “Please don’t leave me again!”

  Will’s body gave a spasm, and he gasped for air, his eyes snapping open in shock, seeing his daughter’s little face for the first time in three years.

  “Beth . . !” he breathed. Then his eyes closed again and his body went limp. But this time there was a smile on his lips and he only slept. His daughter was alive! And, for now, so was he.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Bastard!” Sir Richard-at-Lee roared with anger, kicking his chair and sending it flying despite its weight.

  Stephen grimaced but remained silent as his lord vented some of his frustration.

  “This is all because ‘Sir’ Hugh Despenser, in his greed, wanted to extort some money from a decent man!” the Hospitaller shouted, the hurt he was feeling evident in his voice. “The bastard’s supposed to be in exile, yet he continues to bring his black influence to us!”

  After his son had been murdered, Sir Richard had brought his body back to Kirklees and buried him by the priory, his heart close to breaking with rage and despair. Stephen had been unable to catch the assailant in Hull, so they had no legal redress – not that it would have counted for much anyway. The Despensers appeared to be above the law, even in exile.

  Sir Richard, in his grief, had wanted to ride to Cardiff and attack the castle with his own small garrison, but Stephen had stopped him. The Marcher lords would take care of Despenser – indeed, serious trouble was brewing for both the king and the Despensers, as Leeds castle had been besieged by Edward in the past few days, with the Marcher lords Mortimer and Hereford riding to the aid of their ally Lord Badlesmere against the king’s forces.

  The country was truly on the point of civil war as a result of the Despensers evil influence over the king.

  Half an hour earlier, Sir Richard had gathered the staff in his castle at Kirklees and given them the bad news.

  “I know, it’s coming into winter – the worst time I could do this to you,” he told them sadly. “But I have no money left to retain your services – my personal income will have to go towards my debt to Abbott Ness, until I can secure more loans to cover that debt.”

  His staff cried out in shock – how would they look after their families without a job? Food was almost too costly even with a regular wage coming in, what would they do now?

  The Hospitaller could only spread his hands wide and beg their understanding.

  To ruin so many lives, after his own son being murdered…it was too much.

  * * *

  Robin awoke with a gasp, drenched in sweat, his head pounding.

  “What’s wrong?” Matilda asked, sitting up beside him under their shared blanket.

  Robin and Much had reached Nottingham in the afternoon. They had made sure Adam Gurdon’s cock was firmly stuffed in his mouth, tying it there with a piece of torn linen so it couldn’t fall out, then gave his horse a slap on the rump. It had raced off, through the gates of the town, chased by the surprised gate guards.

  Robin knew everyone in Nottingham would have heard about the bailiff returning tied to his horse, mutilated and humiliated in death. The note Friar Tuck had written before they split up, they had pinned to Adam’s body. It would serve as a warning to any who might think to come after them in future.

  This is Adam Gurdon, Bailiff of Wakefield, formerly known as Adam Bell – traitor! it read. This is what happens to lawmen in Barnsdale. The forest is ours!

  Although only a small handful of people would see the note, tongues would wag, and, in a big town like Nottingham, within a few days everyone in the place would know what it said.

  Robin and Much had made their way back to the camp in the Yorkshire forest where John, Matilda, and the rest of the gang waited.

  Tuck’s party were, of course, nowhere to be seen, but one of the men, Arthur, the nineteen-year-old from Bichill, had noticed the stretcher-bearers’ trail had changed direction on the path to camp and it was assumed the canny friar had decided to look for aid at Kirklees Priory.

  Despite rescuing Matilda, and destroying their despised former leader, the mood in the outlaws’ camp was somewhat sombre, since no one knew whether Will Scarlet lived or not. He may not have been the most pleasant of companions, but he was one of their own, and had saved many of their lives at one point or another.

  Ale had been drunk, they sang a song or two, but no one really felt like enjoying themselves. Robin had led Matilda to his pallet when night fell, the camp fire burned low, and the outlaws, after setting the watch, had turned in.

  Matilda shed tears of relief as she made love to Robin in the darkness. Will may have been mortally wounded, but Matilda had never met him. Robin though, her Robin, was here, and in her arms. For that, she cried and said silent prayers of thanks.

  A short while later, she was surprised to hear sobbing coming from beside her. It was a moonless night, and the campfire had burned low, so she could hardly make out Robin’s face in the shadows as he turned and buried his face in her shoulder.

  “What’s wrong?” Matilda whispered, shocked and a little frightened by Robin’s unexpected show of emotion.

  He didn’t reply for a while, just held her tighter. “It’s all too much,” he wept. “I’m only seventeen, yet I’m practically leading a gang of outlaws. I’ve killed men; my mate Will’s dying after being run through in front of his little girl; it’s my fault Harry Half-hand’s dead…and still, the law will be after us tomorrow. Just as they always will be.”

  His voice cracked and he buried his face deeper into Matilda’s shoulder as she stroked his hair comfortingly. “It feels like the weight of the whole world is on me!”

  They held each other tightly in the darkness. Matilda was lost for words so she simply whispered comforting noises as if to a frightened child, and eventually they fell back asleep.

  Until Robin started awake, again, not long before dawn.

  “It’s Will,” he gasped, sitting up wide-eyed. “Something’s wrong. Seriously wrong.”

  Matilda put a hand on his shoulder, frightened by his tone.

  Robin shook his head. He had dreamt of Will, he was trying to help him get better, but…Will didn’t want to get better, and Robin had woken then, despairing for his friend. He looked at Matilda in the darkness, her face beautiful in the dim orange glow from the embers of the campfire, and forced a smile.

  “What will be, will be. Let’s go back to sleep.”

  When the dawn sun rose, Robin took Little John and set out for Kirklees Priory.

  “The men will be brooding about Will,” Robin had said to Matilda as they prepared to leave. “So we’ve told them to spend the day in combat training to take their minds off it. You can go pair off with Much – if you’re going to be staying here with us for a while you need to learn how to defend yourself.”

  Matilda nodded. She had never been in a true physical fight in her life, not even as a child, but, since the foresters would be hunting her now, she had to learn how to live as an outlaw. And that meant f
ighting.

  “Don’t worry.” Robin grasped her hands and gazed at her, the previous night’s self-pity gone as fierce determination filled his eyes. “Somehow I’ll get a pardon for us. For all of us. Adam managed it, we can too! I won’t live like a hunted animal for the rest of my life, I swear it.”

  She forced a smile and Much handed her one of the lighter wooden practice swords with an encouraging grin. Robin gave her a last lingering kiss goodbye before he and John headed off towards the priory.

  After only an hour or so they were met by Allan-a-Dale and Gareth, who Tuck had sent back to camp to take the news of Will’s recovery to the rest of the outlaws.

  “He lives, Robin!” Allan cried, a grin lighting up his handsome face.

  “A miracle, truly!” put in young Gareth.

  Robin and John looked at each other in disbelief.

  “How?” John asked. “That wound he took was mortal, we could all see it!”

  Allan shrugged, laughing. “I told you: a miracle. One minute he was dead, and little Beth was crying her heart out, the next his eyes opened and he spoke to her. Just for a moment, though. He’s been sleeping ever since, but the nuns say his wound’s clean and the smell from it’s gone.”

  John shook his great head in wonder. “Aye, a miracle right enough. God be praised!”

  Robin smiled, but felt Beth had been the one who had brought Will back from the dead, rather than the nuns’ prayers.

  “All right, you two head back to camp and let the others know. Me and John will go and see how he fares, and what Tuck would have us do next.”

  Allan and Gareth nodded, and whooped as John promised a proper celebration feast for them all tonight.