Wolf's Head (The Forest Lord)

by Steven A McKay

  “Dirty old bastard,” Robin muttered in reply, shaking his head with a grin as Tuck continued his tale.

  “I spoke to a man in the Stag’s Head, a seedy tavern in Cambridge, and my employment was arranged. I was to work as part of a small personal militia defending Thomas Clerk, a local merchant.

  “I felt dirty agreeing to the job, but the pay was good. It seemed like money was the most important thing I needed to survive then,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “My savings were almost spent and the wages being offered were much better than what I could get as a simple labourer.”

  Terms of employment settled, he left the tavern and made his way along the stinking road – known locally as “Shitbrook Street”, for obvious reasons – back to his lodgings. The former wrestler wondered despondently where he would eventually end up in the world. Would he ever find something to bring meaning to his life? Or was he destined to flit from one menial, depressing, poorly paid job to another until he expired, too old, or drunk, to move, in a pile of human waste in a place like Shitbrook Street?

  “Then I heard someone scream,” Tuck said. “It was a man, as I found out, but it sounded like a frightened woman.” He smiled at the memory, and then his face grew hard. “I’d taken to carrying a cudgel since my beating in Elton, and when I heard the cry again I knew I had to do something. I couldn’t ignore it, like everyone else seemed to be doing.”

  Two dirty-looking robbers had a well-dressed monk, or priest – Stafford couldn’t tell the difference back then, he simply knew it was some kind of clergyman – pinned against the wall of a house in the alley around the corner. One of the men had a hand on the priest’s throat and was squeezing hard enough to stifle any more cries for aid, while his other hand waved a tarnished old dagger in the clergyman’s face.

  The other thief, seeing the priest safely restrained, knelt down and began to search the pack of another, younger, clergyman clad in grey robes, who lay on the ground, blood oozing thickly from a horrendous, and certainly fatal, wound to his forehead.

  “I watched it all for a few moments. I had no idea what to do,” Tuck told Robin with a shrug. “I had no love for religion or the Church, so I felt no pious duty to help the priest. He meant no more to me than any other man…But, I had no love for robbers either. What I was seeing in that filthy alley disgusted me.”

  As quietly as he could, he slipped into the alleyway, pulling out his cudgel, and crept towards the robber kneeling on the ground.

  The thief never noticed his approach, so engrossed was he in his search of the fallen priest’s belongings.

  Stafford slammed his weapon down on the back of the man’s head with a loud thump.

  The thief crumpled to the ground, but the sound of the blow had alerted his accomplice who released the asphyxiating, blue-faced priest and spun, dagger held defensively before him, to face Stafford.

  The robber glanced down at his fallen accomplice and, panicking, rushed at Stafford, waving his dagger around wildly, while the priest knelt on all fours amongst the human waste on the street, coughing and gasping as he tried to suck air in through his squashed larynx.

  Robert’s training took over as he dodged nimbly to the left, grasped his opponent’s wrist in his right hand and squeezed, hard.

  “I remember it like it happened just last week,” the friar said. “For all my wrestling matches, this was the first true, life-or-death fight I’d been in, I’ll never forget it.”

  The grimy dagger dropped to the ground with a dull metallic thud, as Stafford twisted the robber’s arm until it was behind his back; then the big wrestler slammed the screaming man’s face hard into the wall of the house.

  Once, twice, three times, he battered the would-be thief into the solid timber, then he dropped the senseless man to the floor, face broken and bloody, and his arm twisted at a sickening angle underneath him.

  “I went over to check on the priest, who was still coughing his guts up on the floor. When he got his breath back he looked at me as if I was Christ himself,” the Franciscan crossed himself quickly, and carried on. “His eyes rose heavenwards, and he said to me: ‘The Lord sent you to save me, my son!’

  “I just shrugged and slid my cudgel back into my belt. I was more worried about friends of the robbers turning up than discussing if I was an angel sent from heaven, so I lifted the priest and carried him back to my own lodgings in Shitbrook Street.”

  As it turned out, the “priest” Stafford had rescued was actually John Salmon, the Bishop of Norwich. He and his murdered companion, a Franciscan friar, had taken a wrong turning on their way to a meeting with other clergymen and been accosted by the robbers.

  The bishop genuinely seemed to think Stafford had been divinely sent to rescue him, and his enthusiasm for that belief was infectious.

  Before long Stafford began to think maybe the man was right. After all, if almost any other man had chanced along as the robbery was in progress, things would not have turned out for the best, as most other men would have simply run off or else been slain by the robbers, wouldn’t they?

  “‘Surely it wasn’t coincidence that a man like you – that can fight like you – appeared at just the right time,’” the bishop told me, and, eventually, I realised he was right. God had sent me for a purpose. I’d been trying to find my way for months and now, it seemed like it was staring me in the face.”

  He smiled gently, nodding his head in pious contentment. “I never fulfilled the mercenary contract to defend the rich merchant Thomas Clerk.

  “Bishop Salmon helped me and I became a Franciscan friar: took the grey robes, shaved my crown and devoted the rest of my life to God.

  “I had, at last, found my true calling.”

  For the first time, perhaps ever in his life, he was happy and full of hope for the future.

  “Of course, it wasn’t to last,” Tuck sighed, “which is why I’m here now. But that’s a tale for another day.”

  * * *

  Sir Richard-at-Lee smiled. He felt a small sense of peace again after the tortured few weeks since his son’s murder.

  Thanks to his short alliance with Robin Hood and the other wolf’s heads in Barnsdale he had been saved from financial ruin.

  It was the start of December and his castle had felt cold and lonely since he’d been forced to sack his staff a few weeks ago.

  The door to the great hall opened as he was piling logs on the fire and he glanced over his shoulder, smiling as he saw the people coming in and the blaze began to build in the hearth, warming the room and casting a merry glow on the room.

  “My friends,” he smiled, rising and rubbing his cold hands as he walked over to meet the newcomers. “Welcome back!”

  His former staff members smiled back uncertainly, wondering why they’d been summoned to their lord’s castle again.

  “Cheer up,” Sir Richard told them, placing his hands on his hips and gazing at them. “You can thank Robin Hood and his friends for it – I know I’ll be helping them any way I can from now on. I’m re-hiring every one of you.”

  As the men and women realised their lord was being serious, they raised a cheer of thanks to Sir Richard and Robin Hood.

  Maybe winter wouldn’t be quite so desperate after all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  In the first week of December, Friar Tuck performed a small wedding ceremony for Robin and Matilda under one of the giant oak trees in the forest not too far from their camp. The outlaws feasted and, with heated mugs of ale, sang and danced long into the cold winter night, a great fire burning merrily, bringing light and warmth to the revellers.

  Robin was glad Tuck had talked him into the ceremony. It didn’t mean much to him, despite the fact he considered himself a decent Christian, but he could see Matilda was happy to be properly wed in the eyes of the church.

  Robin was no fool. He knew this was no life for a young couple. Matilda was already past the age where most young women had begun having children.

  With things
as they stood now, though, every one of the outlaws knew they could not lead a normal life. Robin was just happy to give Matilda whatever happiness he could, and the joyful look on her face when he had proposed the formal wedding ceremony had given him some comfort.

  Their life together was not perfect, but at least they were together.

  So life went on in the freezing forest of Barnsdale. The outlaws, wealthy from their attack on Sir John de Bray, had no need to rob as many unwary travellers, which Robin saw as a good thing. It allowed them to lie low, and gave the foresters no incentive to go out of their way hunting the outlaws.

  Despite the period of quiet, though, the outlaws always kept lookouts posted around their camp. All through the day the men – and Matilda – would take turns, hidden high in the branches of whatever evergreen trees grew nearest to the forest pathways, to make sure no one sneaked up on them. There was no need to set a watch at night – no attacker would be foolish enough to stumble blindly around the pitch black woods in the middle of winter. Even so, Robin insisted on it – better safe than sorry, he thought.

  The lookouts had proven a wise precaution. Several times foresters had almost stumbled upon the outlaws’ camp, only to be seen by the lookouts and shepherded, with shouts and other noises, away in the opposite direction.

  Two weeks before Christmas, Will Scarlet sat, comfortably nestled in the branches of a (rare for Barnsdale) Scots Pine, with a thick blanket wrapped around him. The outlaws had cut away enough branches to make an opening large enough for a man to fit, and hammered in wooden boards to make a small platform to rest on. Not quite comfortable, or large, enough to fall asleep in, but tolerable enough for a couple of hours at a time.

  As always, he heard the people approaching long before he saw them. The sounds of fallen, dried-out twigs cracking, as inexperienced, or simply unwary, travellers walked on them, generally gave their presence away and allowed the lookouts time to prepare for their arrival.

  Will grinned as the noisy party of wayfarers came into view along Watling Street, the main road from one end of the country to the other.

  Clergymen. Two of them. Will’s smile became thoughtful as he noted the number of armed guards escorting the two priests. Twelve mercenaries, grim and competent-looking, every one of them.

  Twelve. That was good. No one would hire such a large band of soldiers to defend them unless they were carrying something valuable.

  The priests had something worth stealing then, and the slow-moving horse drawn cart Scarlet could see in the centre of the party no doubt carried it.

  Will gave the travellers time to pass, then he swung down from the tree silently.

  He wasn’t sure who got the biggest shock, as he landed on the forest floor with a soft thump: himself or the swarthy mercenary he landed in front of.

  Instinctively, Will went for his dagger first. He could draw it quicker than his sword, and, at such close quarters, it would be more useful, especially if his surprised opponent reacted as he expected and tried to draw the unwieldy long sword at his side.

  The mercenary didn’t try to draw his sword. The mercenary captain was clearly competent enough to realise their best chance of surviving an ambush was to have as much warning as possible, so must have told his men to make raising the alarm their first priority on being attacked. Hence the scout that Will had, literally, stumbled upon, turned his back on the stocky outlaw and began to run back towards his companions, lungs sucking in air to roar a warning.

  The mercenary never got the chance to warn his fellows. Being unused to wandering around in the deep forests of northern England, he didn’t notice the thin but sturdy tree root underfoot which sent him sprawling on his face, his cry of alarm dashed from him instead as a low painful grunt.

  Scarlet was upon him instantly, dropping both knees onto the man’s back, thrusting his dagger into the side of the fallen mercenary’s neck, killing him instantly.

  The outlaw quickly rose to his feet, looking warily around for any more mercenaries, but the trees around him were silent.

  He knelt and wiped his dagger clean on the fallen mercenary’s gambeson, checking the corpse for valuables as he did so, then hastily, but silently, hurried back to camp, hoping none of the other lookouts were surprised by more of the mercenary group’s outlying scouts.

  A couple of the outlaws were away collecting food and other supplies from the village of Wooley, but thankfully the rest of the men were close to the camp, and they all gathered round the small fire when they heard Scarlet arrive, sounding the birdcall they all knew meant danger.

  “What’s happening, Will?” Robin demanded, seeing the excited grin on the lookout’s face.

  “Foresters?” Matilda asked, her hands tightening around the staff she had been using to spar with Much.

  Will shook his head. “Better. A couple of priests, with a horse-drawn wagon, and around a dozen men escorting them through the forest.”

  Friar Tuck grunted. “That’s a lot of men.”

  Matt Groves smiled thoughtfully, and said what everyone was thinking: “A lot of guards means a lot of money . . .”

  The other lookouts came hurrying back into the campsite as the outlaws discussed what they should do. They also reported twelve guards, although none of them had noticed outlying scouts. Will mentioned the one he’d run into though, as he was worried there may be more.

  “Hang on,” Robin cautioned. “Twelve men, at least, possibly more, presumably well armed and well trained. That many guards could mean some of us getting killed. For what? We don’t need the money. Why not just let them go?”

  Will snorted derisively, his eyes twinkling. “You’re getting soft, Robin, sitting around here all day drinking ale, eating venison and whispering poetry into your wife’s ear.”

  There were whoops and sniggers of agreement at that, and Robin shrugged his shoulders good-naturedly. The men clearly needed to stretch their muscles after a few weeks of relative inactivity.

  “Fine, we’ll rob these priests if we must then. I just don’t see much point in risking our lives when we have no need to.”

  Friar Tuck laid a brawny hand on his young leader’s arm. “A good general never throws away his men needlessly, Robin, I think you’re right.”

  “Aye, he is right,” agreed Little John. “But I’m bored. Let’s go kick these mercenaries’ arses and steal all the priests’ money.”

  Robin laughed along with the rest of the men, and shook his head, but the matter was settled.

  In truth, the young outlaw was quite happy to rob the priests, but he didn’t think he should lead his men on such a dangerous hold-up when they had so much money already tucked away for the winter. Why take a chance?

  For all his charisma, and his skill with a sword and a bow, Robin was still very inexperienced as a commander. He was only just learning that men, particularly soldiers – which was basically what his outlaws were – soon get bored unless they have something to do. And a camp full of bored, testosterone-filled soldiers could quickly become a volatile place unless there was some focused outlet for their aggression.

  “Right, everyone, grab your weapons, and your heaviest armour. You too Matilda, let’s see if you can shoot a real target as well as you can a bag of grain hanging from a branch.”

  His young wife thumped Robin on the backside with her staff playfully then rushed to their shelter to pick up her sword and bow, sticking a handful of arrows into her belt as she fell in with the outlaws who were already moving off.

  “We’ll head them off on the ridge beside the pair of old oaks, eh?” Little John suggested.

  Robin thought for a moment, but shook his head. “There’s not enough cover there – the trees have all lost their leaves, and there’s hardly a green bush to hide behind.”

  John pictured his suggested ambush point in his mind’s eye, and realised Robin was right.

  “What about the bent beech trees, a quarter of a mile further on from the pair of oaks?” rumbled Will Scarlet, w
ho had fallen in beside the two men at the front of the column.

  There was a momentary pause as John and Robin visualised the spot Will suggested, then both nodded approval.

  “There’s some juniper bushes to the west and east of there,” Robin agreed. “And some holly dotted around as well that we can hide men behind.”

  “Aye, and it’s a bit further off than the two oaks, so we’ll have more time to prepare,” Will said.

  Robin clapped his two lieutenants on the shoulders with a confident grin and picked up the pace, wanting to gain as much time as he could to set up their ambush.

  The spot selected by Will turned out to be ideal. One third of the men, led by Scarlet, were able to hide in the undergrowth to the east of the road, while another third, with Tuck at their head, huddled amongst a great patch of juniper on the other side of the track, just a little further ahead. The rest of the men, including Robin and Little John, concealed themselves behind some thick holly, its berries bright as blood against the frost and snow covering the rest of the forest.

  Robin had got into the habit of taking Little John with him whenever they robbed people on the road. When Robin stepped out in front of the victims and demanded their valuables, he knew people would be less likely to try and fight their way out when they saw the near seven-foot-tall, bearded giant standing menacingly at his back.

  And he had taken Matilda in his party this time too, simply so he could protect her if anything should go wrong. She had yet to face a combat situation, and Robin worried she might not handle it. Fighting a man desperate to kill you was quite different to the sparring Matilda was used to with the outlaws.

  Once the men were all in position, they waited.

  After half an hour the priests’ party came along the road and Robin, with his huge friend behind him, roared at them to halt.

  The hard-faced, and obviously competent, mercenaries had quickly drawn up into a circular formation, small shields held before them, forming an impressive barrier around the two clergymen and their wagon.