Wolf's Head (The Forest Lord)

by Steven A McKay

  “Come on now,” Robin said. “There’s no need for any bloodshed. You men know we will be taking all your valuables whether you try and stop us or not.”

  “There’s only a handful of them!” one of the priests shouted at his guards. “And one of them’s just a woman! Kill them, and let’s be on our way before more of the scum turn up.”

  The guards hesitated, eyes taking in the surrounding undergrowth. Robin watched as the mercenary captain noted the juniper and holly bushes the other outlaws were hidden in.

  “Aye, we have you surrounded,” Robin nodded. “The clergyman might think we’re a bunch of village idiots, but you know that’s not the case. If you fight, every one of you will die. All we want is the money, jewellery, that sort of thing, from the two priests. You men can keep whatever you have and be on your way.”

  “Kill him!” the priest screamed again, not liking where this situation was going at all. “You’re being well paid to protect us, so earn your wages, fools!”

  “Will! Tuck!” Robin shouted calmly, turning his back on the mercenaries and looking at the ground in apparent boredom. The rest of the outlaws appeared, arrows already fitted to their bowstrings.

  The two priests began to pray.

  “What’s it to be then, lads?” Robin asked the mercenaries, still facing in the opposite direction. “You’re outnumbered. We won’t bother you any more if you leave right now. It’s your choice.”

  As always, the rest of the outlaws remained unnervingly quiet, staring calmly at their intended targets.

  The captain raised his shield before him a little higher, and shouted to his men, “Use your shields to block their arrows, then engage at will. Forward!”

  Robin was surprised at the mercenaries’ decision to fight, but he spun round with a shouted command, “Choose your target carefully, then fire!” and drew his sword. He saw Little John at his side, bringing his great quarterstaff up defensively in front of himself.

  Matilda loosed her arrow but it embedded itself harmlessly in the shield of one of the guards, so she smoothly pulled another missile from her belt and had it aimed at the same man almost instantly, her hands surprisingly steady.

  The majority of the outlaws saw their arrows embed themselves in shields, or bounce uselessly off onto the forest floor. Only three found their mark: one made its way right through the defensive circle and took a guard in the back; one ricocheted off a mercenary’s helmet and pierced the man to his left through the neck; the third caught an unwary man straight in the face as he lowered his shield too early to see where he was going.

  Some of the outlaws did as Matilda had done, quickly fitting another arrow to their longbow, as their companions moved defensively in front of them, swords drawn. The outlaws’ second volley, rushed as it was, also managed to take out three mercenaries, as the guards panicked under fire and pressed their charge recklessly.

  The remaining six guards now reached the waiting outlaws, and the close combat began.

  Matilda was stunned at what she saw. The mercenaries, grim-faced, hard-looking men, attacked, but the outlaws outnumbered them and worked together like a brutal killing machine, their endless days of relentless training making them utterly unstoppable.

  Little John engaged the guard captain, as Robin slipped past the man and stabbed him in the side. As the mercenary cried out, twisting away in pain, John’s enormous staff swung upwards into his chin and lifted the man off the floor with a sickening crack, his neck broken.

  The other outlaws worked in a similar fashion, one man defending while another pressed the attack from another direction.

  In only a few seconds the mercenaries were all dead. Not a single outlaw had taken a scratch.

  Matilda stared at the carnage before her then dropped to her knees sobbing. Robin tried to comfort her, but she shoved him roughly away, and, rising slowly, walked over to a boulder where she sat, tears streaming down her pale face, staring into the distance.

  “Check the bodies for valuables,” Robin ordered Matt Groves and Much, who set to their dark task efficiently.

  “Are there any more guards with you?” Will roared, pointing his still bloody sword at the two priests, who were cowering in terror beside their wagon.

  The churchmen looked blankly at him, but didn’t reply.

  “Answer me!” Will shouted, his face the bright red of his nickname.

  The priests shook their heads.

  “There better fucking not be,” Scarlet growled. He turned and muttered to Allan-a-Dale next to him, “A handful of outlying scouts like the one I fell on could have really caused us bother.”

  Allan nodded agreement, his eyes warily scanning the forest, just in case the two priests were lying.

  “Where were you going?” Robin demanded, as the outlaws gathered round their prey. “Everyone knows these woods belong to us. Why would you come through here in the middle of winter? What’s so important?”

  The elder priest, the one who had been extorting his guards to attack the outlaws, now sat silent, his face grey and slack.

  The junior priest replied, his voice shaking with nerves. “We’re on our way to Hathersage. To see Lord John de Bray.”

  “That bastard?” Will growled. “What you going to see him for?”

  “We’re from the Abbey of St Mary’s. The abbot agreed to lend Lord de Bray some money after he was robbed in his own home by a gang of depraved outlaws.”

  “Hey! You watch who you’re calling ‘depraved’!” Little John cried with mock indignation, and the other outlaws roared with laughter.

  “Well. This is a stroke of good fortune,” Robin smiled thoughtfully. “I assume the money your abbot was sending to de Bray is in this chest here?” He nudged the great wooden box on the cart with the point of his sword.

  The young priest looked away sullenly, without replying.

  “Of course it is,” Little John grunted, pulling himself onto the cart and smashing off the lock with a stone Allan-a-Dale passed up to him from the side of the path.

  “How much is in there?” Will asked the priests.

  Neither man replied, as Little John lifted the lid of the heavy box and hooted with delight.

  The outlaws crowded round to see the great amount of silver held inside the chest.

  “How much?” Will demanded again, grabbing the elder priest round the neck and hauling him to his feet.

  “Two hundred pounds!” the clergyman shouted in fright. “The abbot is sending Lord de Bray two hundred pounds in silver!”

  “Fuck me, we thought we were rich already,” the teenager Gareth of Wrangbrook gasped, his eyes wide with shock. “What are we going to do with all that money?”

  “Right now, we get it back to our camp,” Robin replied decisively, sheathing his sword and motioning Little John to close the chest again. “Let’s move. Allan, you can drive.”

  He looked at the priests. “You two can go,” he told them.

  “Go?” the elder replied. “What do you mean, ‘go’? We have no escort thanks to you, and the road is teeming with wolf’s heads!”

  “Not my problem,” Robin answered, dismissing the pair and heading off to check on Matilda.

  “You!” the priest cried at Tuck as he walked past, joking with Gareth. “You’re a Franciscan! How can you ally yourself with these brigands? Who are you? I’ll see you excommunicated for this!”

  Tuck shook his head pityingly at the priest. “Father, I have my own reasons for being part of this gang of outlaws, don’t be too quick to judge me. Anyway, by the time you get back to St Mary’s and your abbot chastises you for losing his two hundred pounds, well… you might wish you were still hiding out in this forest.”

  The two priests, pale and wan already, looked stricken as they realised Tuck was right. The abbot would be incensed with them when they returned. They stared at each other, eyes wide with fright.

  Tuck shrugged his shoulders, told them how to reach the safety of the nearest village, and walked off.
<
br />   The wagon groaned into life as Allan-a-Dale cracked the reins of the two carthorses, and the party headed back to their campsite.

  Matilda, her initial shock and revulsion at the death and violence she had seen wearing off, allowed Robin to put an arm round her waist and the couple followed the creaking wagon along the hidden paths of Barnsdale forest in silence.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “The bastards have been killing, raping, pillaging our people for years – and you want us to parley with them?” Sir Richard-at-Lee glared at the Earl of Lancaster in disbelief, using his sleeve to wipe wine from his thick grey beard. “Are you mad?”

  The earl raised a hand to placate the burly Hospitaller, shaking his head in consternation. “Think about it, Sir Richard! We are beset by foes from two sides – the Scots from the north and the Despensers from the south. Which threat is most immediate?”

  Unlike the recent meetings where Sir Richard had met the powerful Earl of Lancaster, there was no one else present here today other than the two of them. The earl had arrived, unexpectedly, at Sir Richard’s small castle an hour ago. Richard had told his steward to bring the earl and his small party in from the biting December winds before inviting Thomas into his hall where a great fire burned noisily and the table was set with mulled wine and sweetmeats.

  The commander of Kirklees opened his mouth to reply, but Lancaster cut him off before he could begin. “Yes, I know what the Scots have done, they raided my lands too don’t forget. But the king is moving against us now – will you stand and watch as he rides over me, as he and his toadies are about to ride over Mortimer, Hereford and the rest of the Marchers?”

  Sir Richard shrugged uncomfortably. The Scots! How could they ally themselves to the hated old enemy?

  “You do realise,” Thomas continued, “that the Despensers banishment has been annulled by Archbishop Reynolds and the king’s other cronies? The bastards will be back in England within the week!”

  “What?” Richard hadn’t heard this news. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, I’m certain. The king is ready to invite them home under his own personal protection. They laugh in our faces! And you were hoping the king would return the ransom money they extorted from you?” The earl laughed in disgust and Sir Richard felt his face flush in anger.

  “Damn them! If this is true, my lord, I’m with you,” the Hospitaller shouted before crossing himself and cursing. “I’d make parley with the Devil himself if it meant the destruction of that bastard Despenser.”

  “It’s true, Sir Richard, believe me. And once the king has crushed the Marchers he’ll be after the rest of us who oppose him. I’ve had copies of the petition we all signed at Doncaster sent to London to be circulated, so the people there can see for themselves what the king has brought on his head. I’ve also sent a messenger north to treat with Bruce and the Black Douglas.”

  “Robert the Bruce eh?” Sir Richard grunted with a tight smile. “Well, if anyone hates Edward it’s the Bruce.”

  “You’re with me then?”

  The Hospitaller nodded. “Aye, I’m with you.”

  “Good.” Lancaster smiled in relief. He had hoped to gather an army large enough to crush the king’s, but his efforts so far had been much less successful than he’d expected. “Raise your men. We must be prepared when they come.”

  “I will,” Sir Richard replied thoughtfully. “And…I might even be able to enlist the help of a few extra longbow-men too…”

  * * *

  Sir Henry de Faucumberg, Sheriff of Nottingham and Yorkshire, was enjoying the brisk morning air. It was almost Christmas, and the snow lay thickly on the fields around Nottingham, the frost on the trees a pretty winter replacement for leaves. He was hunting with his favourite peregrine falcon, although there wasn’t much prey to be had. Still, his servants carried wine and sweetmeats for him to snack on, and it was such a fine day he couldn’t help having a fine time.

  “My lord…” one of his retainers muttered, glancing over his shoulder towards the city.

  “What is it, man?” the sheriff replied irritably, looking in the direction indicated. “Who the hell’s that?”

  Stumbling towards him through the snow was a small party of clergymen. De Faucumberg eventually recognised the man leading them.

  “The abbot of St Mary’s. What’s brought him out of his warm abbey to come and see me?” he wondered.

  He called his falcon back, and placed its hood over its head just as the abbot, red faced and puffing, finally reached him.

  “Sheriff!” the churchman gasped.

  “Abbot Ness!” de Faucumberg replied with a wicked grin, enjoying the abbot’s wheezing discomfort. “Catch your breath, man, catch your breath. What brings you all this way?”

  “That bastard Robin Hood, that’s what brings me here!” the abbot grunted breathlessly. “Why aren’t you doing anything about him? He’s already ruined one nobleman, and he’s near ruined me as well, while you spend your time out here hunting instead of bringing that wolf’s head and his men to justice!”

  “Calm down, abbot,” the sheriff replied, still grinning. “Come, this is no place to discuss business, let’s head back to the castle, where it’s nice and warm.”

  Ness nodded irritably, his face falling even further when he turned and realised he’d have to make the long trek back the way he had just come. De Faucumberg read the abbot’s thoughts but was wise enough not to laugh out loud as he strode off towards his Nottingham stronghold, the clergyman struggling along behind him, face scarlet against the crisp white of the winter snow.

  On their walk back to the castle the abbot tried to engage the sheriff in conversation but de Faucumberg hushed him with a raised hand. “Not out here, with my servants around us, my lord abbot,” he cautioned. “Robin Hood and his men are quite the folk heroes in Nottingham these days. I don’t want what we say getting back to him, as unlikely as it may seem. We’ll talk in private.”

  Half an hour later the pair sat in comfortable chairs in a small room in the castle, a log fire burning merrily in the hearth and cups of gently warmed red wine held in numb fingers. The servants had been sent away, and a thick oak door, complete with trusted guardsman outside, would deter anyone foolish enough to try and eavesdrop.

  “Really, Sir Henry,” the abbot chided. “Don’t you think you’re taking all this a bit too far? I mean, even if Hood has become something of a hero to the lower classes of the city, I hardly think your own servants would be so stupid as to carry gossip to him.”

  The sheriff nodded, taking a small sip of his wine, and sighing in contentment as it slowly warmed his whole being. “You’re most likely right, abbot, but I don’t want something overheard in our conversation finding its way into a local tavern, then growing legs and finding its way to the ears of the wolf’s head. Whatever we decide to do about him will have more chance of success if he isn’t forewarned about our discussion.”

  Ness shrugged irritably before draining his cup and letting himself relax in his seat with a contented sigh. “What do you mean these fugitives have become folk heroes anyway? The leader’s just an arrogant boy.”

  “You know how it goes with the peasants,” de Faucumberg grunted. “Local nobody rises up and deals a blow against us, the hated upper-class persecutors, peasants rejoice. The problem is – this boy has inherited one of the best-trained outlaw gangs in England. Adam Gurdon was a Templar Knight before he was outlawed: a natural leader of men and highly versed in the arts of war. He forged his rag-tag band of criminal scum into a lethal fighting force, apparently able to move, and act, unseen within the forests of Yorkshire. Robin Hood has taken control of Gurdon’s gang.”

  “Where’s this Gurdon then?” the abbot demanded. “Have him hunt these people down.”

  “Good idea, abbot!” de Faucumberg replied sarcastically. “I already tried that. Gurdon was killed by Hood and sent back to Nottingham with his own cock in his mouth, while the foresters I sent with him were routed.”<
br />
  Ness shuddered and shook his head in disbelief. “Well, something must be done. He’s cost me a lot of money – and land too, if the rumours are true.”

  “What rumours?”

  “The money Sir Richard-at-Lee owed me, remember? The man somehow managed to find it, which stopped me gaining ownership of the man’s lands? You were there when he repaid the loan! Well, apparently it was loaned to him by Robin Hood, who stole it from the Lord of Hathersage’s own manor house. Sir Richard was implicated, but nothing can be proven.”

  “Ah yes, I heard about that.” The sheriff nodded thoughtfully. “A gang of outlaws, apparently with some inside knowledge of the building, was able to empty the place of valuables. I have to say, if the Lord of Hathersage” – he cocked an eyebrow at the abbot, who muttered, “John de Bray,” in response -“yes, if John de Bray, can’t defend his own house against a gang of outlaws, well, he deserves to be ruined.”

  “Maybe so,” snapped the abbot. “It’s hardly my fault the man let Robin Hood steal all his money, though, is it? But it was me that lost out on a very nice manor when Richard-at-Lee was able to repay the money I’d loaned him.”

  The sheriff shrugged. “I still don’t understand why you’re so upset. What’s happened since I last saw you?”

  Abbot Ness refilled his cup from the large wine jug on the table before continuing. The sheriff noticed the man’s hands were shaking with rage as he poured the expensive liquid into his cup.

  “Lord de Bray, like Richard-at-Lee before him, asked me for a loan, as the outlaws had ruined him. The man had no money to pay for the upkeep of his manor and, with Christmas almost here, he knew he would also have to pay for a feast for his villagers. I kindly agreed to lend him the money-”

  De Faucumberg spat a mouthful of wine across the room. “Oh, how noble of you, abbot!” he roared with glee. “Interest free, was it, this loan, like the one you gave to Sir Richard-at-Lee? I thought that sort of thing was against the Church’s laws, yet this is the second time you’ve spoken to me about loaning people money!”