Rise of the Wolf (20 page)

A log cracked and split loudly, causing Matt to jump and take another sip of ale. “Anyway, I eventually grew big enough that I could look after myself. My da must have known he'd have a fight on his hands if he continued to beat me once I was full-grown and it stopped.” He looked over at Sir Guy, his eyes surprisingly lucid for the moment. “I'd not forgotten what had happened with my big brother though; I missed him and I wondered how our lives might have turned out if we'd had a sober father instead of a sot. Anyway – the resentment built up inside me over the years... it wasn't a happy household ours, not by a long way.”

“What happened?”

The flare of lucidity dimmed in Matt's eyes as he retreated back into himself again, the firelight casting a ruddy glow on his dour face. “My da came home one night, in a foul mood. He must have lost money at dice or something; whatever it was, he came in shouting and hauled me out the bed before trying to throttle me for not clearing away my dinner plate or some stupid thing.” His voice became hard and his eyes blazed as he remembered that night.

“For the first time in my life, I defended myself. I wasn't a little boy any more, I was almost the same size as I am now. I hit him. And I hit him again, and again. When he fell on the floor, covering his head in his hands – just like I'd done as a child – it made me mad.” He growled in satisfaction. “I beat him senseless – there was blood all over the room – then I took what money he had on him, or hidden in the strongbox under our bed, along with his dagger and what little food there was in the house. And I left. I've never been back.”

Gisbourne was getting tired himself by now, his head beginning to slump onto his chest, but the story was obviously nearing its conclusion and he wanted to hear it.

“You found a job on some ship then?”

“Eventually,” Matt agreed. “Although I had to scratch a living for a few months – stealing money and food just to survive. Sleeping rough in various towns, trying to avoid the guards... Then I came to Hull and, by luck or by chance, got caught trying to steal the purse from a sailor. Older man, from some freezing country away up to the north – Norway or that. He saw I was starving and desperate and was kind enough to get his captain to find a place on their ship for me.  I sailed with them for nearly two years, learned my trade and then moved from ship to ship wherever the work took me... Got fed up with it eventually though, it was a hard life.”

Gisbourne gestured impatiently for him to continue.

“Got into a fight in a tavern in Coatham one day. Arsehole tried to cheat me at dice and I stabbed him with my dagger. The same dagger I took from my da.” His hand patted his hip, feeling the reassuring bulk of the weapon safely tucked away. “I had to escape from the law, so it was back to hiding and moving from town to town, making a living where I could. I did a lot of bad things then.”

He shrugged as if he'd only done what was necessary.

“Wound up in Barnsdale and found Adam Bell and his gang. They took me in and looked after me. Had some good times with Adam until that whoreson Robin Hood turned up and took over the place.” He tried to empty the remainder of his drink into his mouth but most of it spilled down his chin and into his tunic although he didn't seem to notice. Blearily, he got to his feet and shouted for the inn-keeper to show him to the room they'd paid for.

As the man half-led, half-carried Matt along the gloomy corridor the former-outlaw mumbled to himself. “Bastard Hood. I'll see him dead one day, I swear it!”

“They're home!” Young Gareth ran into camp, eyes shining and a huge grin on his narrow face. “They're back!”

“Who's back?” Stephen, the former Hospitaller sergeant-at-arms demanded, buckling on his sword-belt which he'd grabbed from beside his pallet as soon as he heard the skinny youngster from Wrangbrook tearing through the slowly thickening spring foliage towards them. The rest of the men that were around the camp that day followed his lead, grabbing weapons and strapping on whatever armour they owned, ready for whatever danger approached. 

“Robin and John,” Gareth shouted, barely panting despite his mad dash from his lookout post high in a Scots pine. “Although they're dressed like friars,” he reported, a puzzled look on his face. “Even got their heads shaved like friars. Never seen John without his beard.”

Will Scarlet kicked earth over the camp-fire to extinguish it and placed a wooden board on top to disperse the tell-tale smoke over a wider area so it wouldn't give away their position so obviously. He ran forward to stare at Gareth, hope flaring within him.

“Friars? Have you been on the drink again?” he demanded. “Are you sure it's Robin and John and not someone else? Like Gisbourne?”

Gareth shook his head, angry at Will's suggestion he was too drunk to know what some of his best friends looked like. “It's them Scarlet, and I think Allan's with them. I've not drank any more than the rest of you this morning. You were pretty legless yourself last night too, so don't act as if you're better than me you sour-faced c–”

“Enough of this,” Stephen growled, stepping between the two men before Scarlet could do anything. “Maybe it's them, and maybe it's not. The fact they're heading this way suggests they know where our camp is, so I'm inclined to believe it
is
them. It was Robin himself that suggested we come here to Selby after all. You,” he nodded at Gareth. “Good work warning us of their approach, lad, whoever it turns out to be – at least we'll meet them with sword in hand rather than lying on our backs on the grass. Now get back to your post in case anyone else is behind them.” He patted the young man on his shoulder encouragingly and was rewarded with a steely nod of gratitude before Gareth sprinted off into the trees again.

Will looked somewhat sheepish at the Hospitaller's command of the situation since he'd done nothing other than irritate the lookout. He nodded his thanks to Stephen then turned and addressed the men. “Archers, take your positions in the trees. The rest of you get behind me in a semi-circle with your weapons drawn. Whoever these men are, they'll not find us sitting on our arses – we'll be ready for whatever they're bringing us.”

A nervous silence came over the men but no-one appeared. The birds continued to sing and forage amongst the previous year's fallen leaves, but as the men watched the trees in the direction Gareth had said the travellers were coming from there was no sign of anyone approaching.

Will, string fitted to his longbow, fingered the goose-feathers of his arrow and, as time dragged by he cursed to himself, wishing something would happen.

“Where are they?” The voice belonged to Arthur, the stocky young man with hardly any teeth left despite his tender years, but Will couldn't see him to offer an angry rebuke, resorting instead to a furious hiss he hoped would discourage any further lack of discipline from the men.

At last, just as the sun reached its highest point in the sky, casting a wan yellow glow on the greenery that surrounded them, voices filtered through the trees towards them and Will nocked the arrow to his bowstring, happy in the knowledge the rest of the men would also be preparing themselves for whatever happened next. Or
who
ever...

“God be praised, it
is
them,” Edmond said as Little John's great booming voice echoed around the forest and Robin's unmistakeable laugh followed.

“Shut your fucking mouth and keep your weapon at the ready!” Scarlet commanded in a low voice, his face flushing crimson, and Edmond nodded guiltily.

Then, as if they hadn't a care in the world, Robin, John and Allan-a-Dale wandered, grinning, into the clearing and looked around at the vast array of weaponry that met them.

“Lads, is that any way to welcome us home?” Robin laughed, and Will, forgetting his own demand for discipline, ran forward to embrace his friends.

* * *

Surprisingly, Helen didn't come after Marjorie to avenge her humiliation at the older girl's hands. In fact, Helen and her friends gave Robin's sister a wide berth whenever their paths happened to cross.

Marjorie felt – perhaps stupidly – guilty about what she'd done to the girl. Yes, she might have deserved to be taken down a peg or two, but the pained look on her face when Marjorie had kicked her to the ground still played on her mind. She felt some empathy with the girl; harsh bereavement was a common factor in both their young lives and it affected people in different ways.

Before her mother died Helen had been quite a popular girl and, although she'd tossed the odd insult Marjorie's way, well, so had almost every other girl in the village – it was just what children did and, although it had been hurtful, Marjorie knew now that it had all helped make her who she was. It had all strengthened her and was now contributing to her drive to break out of the role of weakling that seemed to have been assigned to her by God and everyone in Wakefield. Even her parents who doted on her.

Eventually, she'd had enough of the sullen looks and crossed the dusty street one morning when she'd spotted Helen walking on her own, on some errand or other.

“Wait.”

“What do you want? We've left you alone, just like you wanted.” Helen's bottom lip thrust out and her fists clenched, as if preparing for another physical altercation and Marjorie spoke fast to reassure the girl.

“Look, I'm sorry I hit you. You were being horrible and when you got into my face I just wanted to defend myself and keep you away from me. Truly, I'm sorry. I should have just ignored you.”

Helen looked at her warily, hands still balled into fists, not really sure how to react. She knew herself she'd deserved to be beaten; she'd been mean to the other girl for no reason. Yet here was the lass she'd been tormenting, apologising for standing up to her.

Marjorie smiled, apparently sincerely, and Helen looked ashamed. She was bigger than this girl, which was one reason why she'd picked on her. Smaller people were usually easy targets; didn't normally fight back.

“No,
I'm
sorry,” she said. “Everyone knows why you're small. I was being a bitch and I got what I deserved. If someone spoke to me like that I'd have beaten them bloody and... well, you had that wooden sword so I was glad you let me go.” Her eyes dropped to Marjorie's midriff, looking to see if the practice weapon was concealed again and this was all just the prelude to a thrashing.

“I've got it, aye,” Marjorie smiled in reply to the unspoken question. “I carry it with me all the time now, so it becomes second nature.”

Helen stiffened almost imperceptibly as the girl pulled out the weapon; short, with many nicks in the dull edge but sturdy and dangerous looking. Her eyes widened at the freshly oiled wood which Marjorie was obviously proud of.

“Could... could you teach me how to use one?”

Marjorie hesitated. Fighting was
her
thing. She didn't want to let another girl – especially one already bigger than her despite being four years her junior – share it with her. Then she remembered something Matilda had told her, a piece of wisdom that apparently originated with Will Scaflock: “If you truly want to master something, teach it.”

From then on, Marjorie had a new sparring partner for those times Matilda was busy with little Arthur or with her work in the fletcher's. She and Helen became friends, finding they had much in common other than the fact they'd both suffered painful losses. The younger girl came to look up to Marjorie, impressed by her natural skill with the wooden sword and her dedication to improve herself despite the limitations of her body. Soon, other local girls were joining in with the sparring and training sessions. None took it as seriously as Marjorie, but all seemed to enjoy it and all seemed happy to look to her for instruction.

Marjorie found herself happier than she'd ever been in all her fifteen years on God's earth. She was close to her parents and enjoyed spending time with Matilda and Arthur as the baby grew and learned to walk properly and speak a few words. The way he pronounced her name always made her smile: “Mahjy.” Proud Auntie Mahjy. She also progressed with her training – helping Helen and the girls was really paying off for her. She'd never be able to stand up to someone as big, or as skilled as, for example, Little John or Allan-a-Dale, but most men weren't like that. None of the villagers were as big as her brother and his companions, or as deadly with sword and longbow – those men were exceptional because they
had
to be to survive as outlaws.

Marjorie felt, somewhat naively, that she could hold her own if some village boy – like the miller's son who'd been giving her lecherous looks for weeks – had tried to molest her.

She felt good when she woke in the mornings now, and walked with a straight-backed swagger that people had started to notice and comment upon.

John and Martha Hood, of course, had seen the change in their previously skinny, quiet daughter and had pried the truth from Matilda. They'd agreed to turn a blind eye, despite the antinomian nature of Marjorie's new pursuit, since the change in her was so plainly for the better.

Matilda watched as her sister-in-law grew into a confident young woman and prayed to God her eager student would never need to put her fighting skills to use for real.

Behind her smile, though, Marjorie still felt like something was missing.

* * *

“Let's stop here for the night,” Osferth suggested as a small village appeared on the horizon. “We've made good time today and it'll be dark soon. I don't know about you but I'd rather sleep in a bed than on the damp grass again. My neck still aches from last night's 'sleep'.” He grimaced and bent his head from side to side as if to demonstrate his pain. “I'm not used to sleeping outdoors like you.”

Tuck nodded. “Fair enough. We're nearly in Yorkshire anyway. Should reach Horbury by tomorrow if we're on the road early enough. I know some people there who might be able to tell us where Robin and the boys are camping. Hopefully the sheriff hasn't caught them yet.”

They rode into the village – Bryneford according to the almost-illegible sign –  which was little more than a handful of houses and a little wooden building that doubled as both church and the local priest's dwelling. There wasn't even an inn but one of the locals, a man named Philip, had a spare room in his house as a result of some disease that had visited the place a few weeks earlier and he allowed the two clergymen to stay with him in return for some small coins.

The villager had some ale which he shared with the clergymen and they made idle chatter to pass the time as night fell. Tuck seemed to grow drowsy very quickly although Osferth's eyes remained alert despite appearing to consume just as much of the drink as the older man.

“Come on, we'll get you into the bed,” Osferth smiled, helping Tuck off the bench that ran along one side of the villager's house. “I'll stay up with Philip here for a while longer; I'm enjoying sampling all these local ales on our adventure. Makes a nice change from the same old piss-water we got back in the priory.”

The villager gave them a candle which he'd lit from the big fire in the centre of the room and Osferth helped his friend into the little room with its pair of straw mattresses. Philip assured them he'd burned the old beds to get rid of any dangerous  fluids or vapours since the previous occupants – Philip's teenage sons – had gone to their final resting place. Without his boys to help him on the small plot of land he farmed the villager had to find some other source of income so, with no inn in the little place, it seemed a decent idea to offer his spare room to any travellers in return for a few coins.

“I haven't had any 'guests' yet, other than you two,” he'd told them when they first arrived. “So the mattresses will be nice and plump for you.”

And indeed they were, heavy and comfortable, even if it seemed something of an intrusion to be sleeping in a bed that belonged to a dead boy not so long ago. Still, within a few moments Tuck was sound asleep and snoring loud enough to shake the rafters until Osferth rolled him onto his front, quieting the rumbling only marginally, and left the room with a somewhat nervous backward glance.

“Another?” Philip looked up as the monk returned, the big ale pot hovering above Osferth's empty mug.

“Not right now. May I borrow this candle?”

Philip looked puzzled but nodded agreement. “It's not windy so it should stay alight for a while but... where are you going at this time of the night?”

“I need to speak with the priest. Will he be at home?”

“Father Martin? Aye, he should be in the church. Young man he is, but he never really goes anywhere outside of the village. I suppose he might be visiting someone but...” He shrugged as if to say that was unlikely and Osferth thanked him before opening the front door.