Path of the She Wolf (11 page)

Though Clipston was small compared to the great castle of Nottingham, the walls were solid and sturdy, built of strong, sandy-coloured local stone. The place was a hunting lodge, built to house the King comfortably when he chose to go chasing the fine Sherwood deer.

Sheriff de Rue went out to meet the gang of returning soldiers. They were delighted with the prisoner that they’d found, though still uncertain exactly who he was. Will rode amongst them in silence, with his head held high, even though they’d bound his arms behind his back and fastened his legs to the saddle.

‘Who is this?’ the Sheriff demanded. ‘Haven’t you got the woman?’

The men shook their heads and shuffled their feet. ‘No sign of her,’ they said. ‘Just this fellow, defending the place alone. We think we’ve maybe got the Hooded One for you.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘The fellow killed two of our men before we managed to get him.’

The Sheriff looked at Will with uncertainty. ‘Who are you?’ he asked quietly.

Will smiled proudly, ‘’Tis as they say,’ he agreed. ‘I be the Hooded One.’

The Sheriff was puzzled. The man bore himself with great dignity and wore a fine scarlet mantle but spoke like a peasant. ‘Who the devil is this Hooded One?’ he muttered to himself. ‘Is he peasant, fool, or rebel lord?’

‘Put him in the lock-up,’ at last he snarled. ‘Whoever he is, he’ll hang before the sun goes down.’

Will did not flinch or tremble as they led him away.

A gibbet was fast erected outside the walls of Clipston and a short while before the sun began to set, the great wooden gates opened and Will Stoutley was escorted outside, his hands still tied. The Sheriff came down from the ornate stateroom that he used himself while the king was not in residence. De Rue was still uncertain exactly who this prisoner was; but the man had killed two guards and that were a grievous enough offence to hang him without hesitation.

As Will was led out towards the gibbet, a fair-haired man emerged from the sheltering trees, and dismounted quietly from his horse. He moved slowly towards the raised platform, limping slightly and gripping the handle of a dagger that was stuck into his belt. His other hand, apparently, rested carelessly on the hilt of his sword.

The scarlet-coated figure of Will strode up the new-made steps. He glanced at the small crowd of foresters
and soldiers and saw the face of a friend down there below him. No sign of recognition crossed his face; instead he turned to speak to the Sheriff. ‘Let me die an honourable death,’ he cried. ‘Let me die as befits the Hooded One with a sword in my hand.’

A sneer touched the Sheriff’s thin lips. He laughed: then spat into Will’s face. ‘Hang the fool,’ he cried. ‘Get on with it! Shut his stupid mouth up! Shut it forever!’

As the hangman moved to lift the noose, suddenly Tom was swinging himself up onto the platform with agility, despite his damaged leg, sword and dagger in his hands. He sliced through Will’s bonds in a moment.

Will laughed, delighted.

‘Here’s your sword,’ Tom cried. ‘Don’t die with honour; fight instead! Help shall come – I’m sure of it!’

Then the two men swung about back to back as they’d so often done in their practising. Will with a sword and Tom with his dagger were both ready to fight to the death any and all of the Sheriff’s men.

The Sheriff howled with anger. ‘Kill them! Kill them both!’ he screamed.

But the guards hesitated to charge at them, for the gleam that was there in the outlaws’ eyes told them that they would not die without taking others with them.

Then all at once an arrow went whistling over the heads of the soldiers, just grazing the Sheriff’s cheek. The Sheriff swung round in fury as more arrows flew out from the edge of the woodland bringing down two more soldiers.

Then there started up strange distant thudding sounds that grew and grew, at last becoming thunderously loud.

‘Look out! Look out!’ one of the soldiers cried, pointing towards the woods. Everybody turned to see that the bushes and branches on the edge of the forest were trembling and shaking. Even tall trees twisted and turned, waving wildly about. All at once hundreds of squealing, grunting pigs came bursting out from the shadows of the trees, charging at speed towards the platform and the crowd of fighting men. There was sudden wild panic, every man shouting at his companions, nobody able to hear or make sense.

‘Ya! Ya!’ came the cries of the herders as they still drove the pigs on. The gibbet was surrounded by fat, heaving, snorting bodies. More arrows whistled overhead and the Sheriff was grazed again in the elbow. He did not wait to see what next might come flying out from the forest, but fought his way through the charging beasts, slicing his sword in all directions, heading for the gates of Clipston. At last he reached the safety of the courtyard, his men streaming after him.

‘Get back and fight them,’ he cried, ‘I order you back!’

The Sheriff tried to close the gates and make his men stay and fight, but they’d had enough of nasty surprises for one day and only when the last guard was eventually safe inside did they swing the gates closed.

There was just a moment of laughter and rejoicing, then the outlaws took action once again knowing that they must not hang about. Isabel rode straight at the collapsing gibbet and hauled Will up behind her onto her strong grey mare. Tom whistled for Rambler and in a moment the horse was by his side. There were a few more shouts
and sharp bursts of laughter as the pigs were quickly rounded up and driven back into the woods. When the Sheriff dared to open the gates once more there was nothing left but a smashed gibbet and a great expanse of trampled ground and pig-muck.

‘Get into the woods,’ the Sheriff cried. ‘Kill every pig-herder you can find. Kill every pig!’

But as the night grew darker, the pigs and their owners left the woodlands, slipping away to their homes along the secret paths that they knew well. A thin mist rose from the sodden mossy grass, growing thicker in patches, sending the soldiers stumbling about, lost and weary. They fell into bogs and streams, cursing the pigs and their herders, cursing each other but cursing the Sheriff most of all.

There was much joy as Will and his rescuers returned to Langden, but Marian marched ahead of the others towards the Forestwife’s clearing, her face grim.

‘Do not look so anxious,’ Robert begged, running after her. ‘It was a mad idea, that you and Magda thought up, but it worked!’

‘Aye. It worked,’ she agreed. ‘But the Sheriff will not forget Langden now! This will not be the end of it. We have made a fool of him, but this man’s no buffoon like the last Sheriff was! He will not forgive or forget this night’s work.’

Robert frowned and nodded but still his smile returned and he took hold of her hand. ‘You are right as ever, but I tell you this. I would not have missed the look on de Rue’s
face when all the pigs charged out from the trees . . . I would not have missed it for the world! And I do not think this Sheriff will return to Langden in a hurry!’

‘No, maybe not,’ Marian relented and smiled at last. She moved closer to Robert and they marched along together, arms about each other’s waists, their pace matching perfectly, step for step.

Though the soldiers spent a few more days scouring Sherwood for pigs and herders, there were none to be found. The pannage month was over and they’d all gone back to their villages. Robert once more took up his quiet fireside job of whittling arrow shafts and gathering goose feathers to make the flights.

In early December Tom set off for Hathersage, while Isabel and Philippa brought news that they’d picked up from travellers passing through Langden. King John had destroyed Rochester Castle by tunnelling beneath the ground and blowing up one of the towers with a huge explosion of fire and pig fat. He’d then marched on to Winchester and was said to be gathering together more arms and even more mercenaries.

‘He’s setting out from St Albans now, heading for Northampton,’ Isabel told them.

Robert exchanged uneasy glances with James. ‘I don’t like the sound of him marching north. The farther he is from us the better,’ he muttered.

‘There’s sad news of the rebellious Bishop of Hereford,’ Isabel added. ‘He agreed at last to swear fealty again, but the deed was never done. The man has died.’

‘Indeed?’ Robert growled. ‘Then he never forgave the King. I cannot say I’m sorry! Let’s hope this brings an end to that family’s suffering.’

Everyone murmured agreement to that.

‘There’s a stranger story going about,’ said Isabel. ‘I can’t believe it’s true, but they say that the rebel barons have sent envoys to the King of France, begging him to send his son Prince Louis at the head of an army.’

‘Why should the French come to England’s aid?’ Robert asked.

‘They promise that if he support the rebel barons in their fight and help them get rid of King John, then in return they shall make Prince Louis our king.’

There were gasps from them all.

‘What? It doesn’t make sense,’ Robert insisted. ‘What good would it do to have another foreign king brought here? What does Prince Louis know of us?’

‘Huh! It doesn’t surprise me,’ Marian told them. ‘The barons simply seek another way to snatch power for themselves.’

‘You best tell them about Robert de Ros,’ Philippa prompted.

‘Yes,’ Isabel agreed. ‘The great northerner lord returned to his castle at Helmsley, as soon as he heard that the King’s army travels north. He’s setting about building up his defences as though he expects a siege.’

‘Aye,’ Philippa added. ‘And he is not the only baron who does that. They all seem to expect the worst and where does it leave us?’

‘Defenceless! And right in the middle of it all, as usual!’ Marian spoke with anger.

‘We are not defenceless,’ Magda cried. ‘We must do what we’ve always done. We’ll fight!’

‘Aye Magda,’ Philippa smiled. ‘But you will not be doing the fighting this time. You’ll leave that to us.’

Marian expected Robert to agree angrily and speak of rallying men to defend them, but he stayed silent, staring moodily into the fire.

With a still growing sense of foreboding, Marian ordered the digging of deep keeping-pits to hide away their stocks of grain, oats, nuts and beans. Though Christmas came they did not organise the usual festivities, and the feast day itself was marred by the news that King John had arrived to spend Christmas with the Sheriff of Nottingham. Magda grew rounder and more restless every day and still Tom did not return from Derbyshire with her father. They heard that every pallet in Nottingham, every scrap of floor space in the city was taken up with a vast army of foreign soldiers who’d arrived armed to the teeth.