Rise of the Wolf (27 page)

He burst into a small clearing and allowed himself to stop and catch his breath. He wasn't a young man any more and, although he was fairly fit, he'd not done much training since joining Gisbourne's crew other than the occasional spar with his one-eyed leader, and his flight had tired him more than he wanted to admit to himself. He rested his hands on his thighs and sucked in lungfuls of air, the heaving in his chest eventually subsiding until, at last, he raised his head, still smiling, and spat a great glob of green phlegm into the old brown leaves underfoot. He noted the position of the sun and, since he had a fair idea what time it was, could work out which direction it was to Nottingham.

The sheriff might hate his guts, but someone had to tell de Faucumberg what had happened to all the soldiers he'd sent to deal with the notorious outlaws. He glanced back over his shoulder but there were no sounds of pursuit, just an almost even more unnerving silence and he turned slightly to the left to forge a path through the forest in the direction of the city.

He wondered what he'd do now, with his comfortable position as the Raven's  second-in-command apparently finished. He wouldn't go back to a sailor's life again and, although he was a free man he didn't have any money; he'd blown it all on drink and whores. But Sir Henry was now short a dozen men in his garrison, so perhaps he could find employment there, with the sheriff.

Despite the overwhelming defeat his side had suffered that day, Groves felt strangely optimistic as he jogged towards Nottingham. Hood's gang were still at large after all, and who better to lead the chase now than one of their ex-members with his detailed knowledge of their habits, routines and local suppliers? Yes, the sheriff didn't like him very much, but perhaps he could persuade the arrogant, stuck-up arsehole to let him lead the search for Hood from now on.

The self-satisfied smile never left his face all the long road back to the city.

* * *

Somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind Robin knew he should control himself; his men were watching him and they needed leadership not a display of raw, naked emotion. But at that moment, when he saw his friend Allan-a-Dale lying, cold and bloody and dead, on the soft spring grass the young outlaw captain sank to his knees and held his head in his hands.

A tortured cry tore from his throat and tears filled his eyes, grief and a terrible rage warring within him and even Little John stood back respectfully and wary of disturbing his leader, lost as he was in his emotions.

Robin remembered that night when he and Allan had performed in the manor house, singing for the lords and ladies to much applause, before saving Will's daughter from her own hellish life the next morning. He remembered all the times the outlaws had sat around the campfire on a freezing night, with nothing but ale, Allan's music and one another's company to chase away the gloom. And he remembered just a few weeks ago, when he and John had rescued the minstrel from Nottingham. It had all turned out so nicely that day, as if God himself had been watching over them, but now...

Finally, the reality of their situation brought Robin back to his senses and, still looking down at his fallen companion, he growled, “Did we get them all?”

Will Scarlet shook his head. He, along with a couple of the other men, had checked the dead and wounded. “For our part,” he said, “we only lost...” he stared at Allan's lifeless form, unwilling to say his comrade's name. “As for the enemy; who can say? We don't know for sure how many of them were in their party. We didn't get all of them though – whoever did that to Allan must have escaped into the trees. And... he's not the only one that's escaped...”

Robin sat for a moment, still unable to think straight, then he looked up, understanding flaring in his eyes. “Gisbourne?”

“Aye.”

“We've looked but his body's not here,” Stephen muttered confirmation.

Robin got to his feet slowly, his mind whirling. If they hadn't managed to kill the Raven, all this had been for naught. Gisbourne would simply return to Nottingham for reinforcements – perhaps the garrison would be too stretched and he'd need to wait on the king sending him more men, but, eventually they would come and then their hated enemy would return in a fury, again and again, until every last one of the outlaws lay rotting in the ground like Much and Harry Half-Hand and Wilfred and Sir Richard-at-Lee and...

“Allan died for nothing then. All of these men here today died for nothing.”

“It gets worse.” Little John hunched his great shoulders unconsciously, as he often did when talking to someone so he could look them in the eyes without appearing intimidating. “There's no sign of that arsehole Matt either.”

Robin just stared in silence at the giant. 

“We should deal with the survivors,” the Hospitaller sergeant growled, breaking the spell that seemed to hold the entire forest in its grip and the men nodded, the agonized grunts and cries of badly injured men finally filtering through their shock at Allan's brutal demise.

“Stephen's right,” Robin admitted, making a conscious effort to pull himself together, at least until all this was dealt with. “And we should try and find out where the fuck Gareth got to. That little prick should have warned us of Gisbourne's approach; if he's got drunk and fallen asleep while on watch I'll tear off his balls and feed them to him.”

“I'll go,” the newcomer, Piers, offered. “I know where the lookout post is and I'm a fast runner.” In truth, the fight had appalled him – he'd never in his whole life witnessed so much blood and death, and the pitiful sounds coming from their maimed enemies were playing on his already frayed nerves. Even going off alone into the forest seemed better than staying around the camp right then.

Robin nodded, seeing the shock in their new recruit's face and knowing it would do the young man good to spend a little time alone. The memory of his own first battle as an outlaw was still fresh in Robin's mind – it seemed a lifetime ago, so much had happened since, and he'd become battle-hardened in the intervening time, but it was only... Christ above, it was only two years ago.

Piers hastened off through the undergrowth, trying to appear stoic and offering his captain a wave of salute as he went, while Robin moved back towards their camp to see who was still alive and what could, or should, be done with them.

Although Gisbourne's men were enemies, they were simply soldiers following their orders. The wolf's head felt no malice towards them for their actions, just a bitter sadness that so many men had to die to serve the purposes of their 'betters'. With the escape of Matt Groves and Sir Guy of Gisbourne Robin's battle-fury had left him and a gaping, maudlin hole remained.

Friar Tuck was already moving amongst the wounded, trying to help those most grievously harmed first. Stephen too had a decent knowledge of rudimentary healing skills and he tended to those Tuck couldn't get to quickly enough.

Of Gisbourne's force of approximately thirty-five men, twenty-two lay dead, sprawled on the ground or even slumped awkwardly over logs or lying cradled within the branches of some bush or other. Six were wounded, at least three of them mortally despite Tuck and Stephen's efforts. The rest of the soldiers were unaccounted for – presumably they'd decided to leave their comrades to their fate and had escaped into the trees along with their black-attired, one-eyed leader and his second-in-command, Groves.

Robin didn't know whether to curse the escapees for abandoning their companions or to be glad that at least some men would be able to return home to their families that night. It was all so damn senseless.

“What do we do now?” Little John asked, spreading his arms wide like some enormous bird-of-prey. “They know where we are.”

“Aye, we should move camp again,” Arthur agreed running a hand through his thick brown hair. “This place isn't safe any more.”

Robin shook his head and filled a mug with ale from a cask on the wagon close to the fire before dropping onto one of the big logs they'd been using as seats for the past few weeks. “They won't return tonight. Or tomorrow for that matter. We have time yet.” He felt weary. Drained. And not just from his part in the fight. Being the leader might seem glamorous to some but it placed a huge amount of stress on his shoulders and, although he was getting better at dealing with it all, times like this still took their toll on him.

John nodded, happy to accept Robin's decision and, along with a couple of the men who, like him, didn't feel like resting, moved off to find a spot to dig a grave for Allan-a-Dale.

What they would do with the near two-dozen enemy corpses John didn't know and, right then, didn't care. Robin wasn't the only one bone-weary and struggling to deal with the aftermath of the battle. Will and Stephen might have seen dead bodies piled up and blood saturating the ground when they'd fought in great armies overseas, but most of the men had never been a part of so much death.

Would the mood in the camp be different if Groves and Gisbourne had been killed? Would the men be celebrating, rather than moving silently around the place almost gingerly, as if they half-expected the sky to fall on them at any moment? The atmosphere was beyond eerie and only made worse by the fact one of the mortally wounded soldiers had begun to scream as the pain became unbearable. The tanner, Edmond, eyes wide and hands shaking, crammed a strip of linen into the man's mouth to muffle the horrible sound.

No-one even tried to stop him.

Piers reached the lookout post in a short time, his youthful legs and loping stride carrying him through the undergrowth at a relentless pace as he tried to forget what he'd witnessed back at the camp. He'd seen death before, of course – who hadn't? But it had been
normal
death: his grandmother limp and ashen-faced in her bed one morning; his pet dog, murdered by a drunken sailor during the night; a vagrant, frozen to death the previous winter in one of Nottingham's side-streets when Piers had been making his way to work in the clerk's offices.

But to be attacked by so many soldiers, and to watch them being brutally cut down like chaff under a labourer's sickle... He shuddered and took a deep breath, glancing around himself, eyes searching the thick new-season foliage for hidden dangers but he saw nothing and looked up, spotting the cleverly concealed wooden platform the outlaws had built into the tree near the very top.

“Gareth,” he hissed, trying again when there was no sign of movement from above, or even a sound of recognition. Perhaps the youngster
had
allowed himself to get drunk and fallen asleep as Robin suggested. Piers whacked the trunk of the tree – a venerable old Scots Pine – and tried shouting on Gareth again, louder this time.

Still no response from above.

A sense of foreboding came over him and he knew he'd have to climb the tree. He supposed if Gisbourne's men had somehow found the lookout post there would be blood or other signs of a struggle – Gareth wasn't much of a fighter but he had spirit and wouldn't just sit there while someone killed him. As he began the ascent, using the handily placed iron nails, Piers glanced down into the surrounding foliage, hoping desperately not to see Gareth's corpse there, thrown by some assailant.

A slight movement from beneath a juniper bush caught his eye but it was just a blackbird, foraging for worms, and he continued his ascent, trying to move as silently as possible, fearing what he might find on the rapidly nearing platform although he told himself it was more than likely empty.

Gareth must have decided he'd had enough of this life and buggered off, Piers surmised, finally grasping the platform and hauling himself up onto it.

He shrank back involuntarily, almost falling out of the tree, a horrified gasp escaping from his lips. “No!”

Gareth hadn't buggered off, he was still there. But the suggestion that he'd taken alcohol to his post appeared to be correct for an empty wine-skin lay by his side, flat and clearly drained. Rather like the empty shell that used to be Gareth's young body.

There wasn't a scratch on him but Gareth lay on his back, as if he'd fallen asleep after consuming all his wine. Dried vomit coated the man's mouth and neck though, suggesting he'd puked but been so drunk he hadn't even woken up. Piers wondered inanely whether Gareth had died from suffocation or drowning, as if the distinction somehow mattered.

The newcomer to the outlaw gang sat for a long time, just staring at his dead comrade, hoping to see some signs of life but it was futile and eventually the shock passed and allowed Piers to climb unsteadily back down to the ground, taking his time as his limbs were shaky and his head seemed to spin. When he finally reached the forest floor he made the sign of the cross, feeling somewhat silly and self-conscious but knowing he should offer some sign of respect for poor Gareth's departed soul, then without a backward glance, loped off into the trees to tell the rest of the men the bad news. As he ran his mind whirled; after a relatively pleasant few weeks as an outlaw living in the trees of Barnsdale things didn't seem quite so straightforward.

Holy Mary, mother of God! What have I let myself in for?

* * *

Twenty-three dead men in their camp. Their
home
! Robin sipped his ale, staring into the fire numbly. This wasn't his home, how could it be when his wife and little son were miles away in –

“Wakefield.”

The voice carried to Robin through the still air and his eyes flicked up to see who had spoken. He didn't recognize the strangely accented voice and he knew it hadn't come from one of his own men. He jumped to his feet, and hurried across to the wounded prisoners that Tuck was still tending to.

“Who said that?” he demanded, glaring at the men.

One of them raised a hand weakly and Robin knelt beside him, offering him the ale cup he'd carried over without even realising it. “Here, lad, drink.”

The soldier, probably not even out of his teens from the look of his unlined and beardless face, gratefully accepted the cup and gulped down its contents greedily.

“What about Wakefield?” Robin asked softly. He'd noted the great gaping hole in the man's side where the chain mail had been penetrated by a sword thrust and knew it wouldn't be too long before he expired.

The soldier gritted his teeth as a wave of nausea flooded through him and Robin watched impatiently, a sense of foreboding beginning to creep over him.

“Sir Guy... I heard him, just before he slipped into the trees and left us to die, the bastard.” He sobbed, his hand fluttering weakly about the bloody gash in his side as the pain began to worsen.

“Rest easy, soldier.” Robin forced a reassuring smile onto his face and held a comforting hand gently on the man's arm. “You're going to be all right. The good friar here will see to it.”

The man shook his head, fear and resignation plain in his eyes as he met the wolf's head's gaze. “I'll be dead within the hour. Before that. But I can't go to my grave with more deaths on my conscience.”

“Speak.” Robin nodded, feeling guilt and sorrow for the man's agony but needing to know what the hell Gisbourne had said.

“Promise me you'll perform the last rites for me, brother,” he gasped, before sighing in relief at Tuck's nod then gritting his teeth again. “When Sir Guy saw your lot's arrows coming out of the trees like some hellish rain he must have known he'd lost the battle before we'd even aimed a blow of our own. I heard him cursing to himself before he –”

Robin hissed at him as the light began to fade from his eyes and his fingers gripped hard on the soldier's wrist. “He what?”

“He said... if he couldn't kill you he was going to Wakefield. To kill your family instead.”

Robin felt as if his blood had turned to ice but, before he had time to react, another voice burst in.

“He's dead too! Gareth's dead!”

There was an angry chorus from the stunned outlaws who crowded back into the centre of the camp to shoot questions at the overwhelmed Piers. Little John did his best to hold the men back so the young clerk could tell them what had happened, while Robin just stood, unable to move, mind reeling.

“Did Gisbourne's men get him too?” John demanded once he'd silenced the men and Piers had managed to get his breath back after the run.

“No. You were right,” he glanced over at Robin who simply stared back uncomprehendingly. “He'd drank at least one full skin of wine then... he must have passed out and threw up while flat on his back.” Piers shrugged, his face twisted in anguish. “He's dead,” he finished simply.

No-one knew what to say. To rant about Gareth's stupidity seemed crass and disrespectful at a time like this, even if it was the first thing that came into most of the outlaws' minds.

“Fuck!” Little John finally broke the silence, his single shouted oath enough to sum up the feelings of every man in the camp.

“Looks like we'll have to dig another grave beside Allan's,” Stephen muttered, collapsing wearily onto a log and picking at the skin on his fingers.

The men stood, or sat, for a long time in silence. It was a bad day and, mentally, if not physically, they were just about broken.

Suddenly Robin shook his head, and wide-eyed, he ran over to Little John, pointing at Will as he went. Their day wasn't over yet.

“That bastard Gisbourne's gone to Wakefield to kill Matilda and my son. I have to go after him, and he's got a head start. Will you two come with me?”

His two lieutenants nodded in unison.

“Of course we will,” John rumbled.

“But we'll never be able to catch up with him now,” Will fretted. “As you say, he's ages ahead of us.”

Robin pointed at the wounded soldiers who were watching the outlaws with interest, despite their own predicament.  “Those men came here on horseback. We need to find their mounts. It'll mean starting off in the wrong direction but it's the only way we'll be able to reach Wakefield in time.” He knelt by the captured men. “Where are your horses?”

The soldiers, although wounded and even dying, were pleased to have been treated with respect by Hood's men since they'd been defeated.

“You've treated us fairly,” one of them mumbled. “While our own leader pissed off and left us to die.” He spat, a mixture of saliva and blood which he looked at balefully before continuing. “The horses are a little way to the west of your lookout post. Just follow the line of trees, you can't miss them. Poor beasts, they've been tied up there all day.”

Robin, John and Will still wore their weapons and armour and Robin only tarried to grab his longbow and an ale-skin before giving his orders to the rest of the men.

“Stephen, you're in charge. As I say, I doubt there's much chance of any more attackers coming here within the next few days but be on your guard. Some of the soldiers we chased off might still be lurking nearby.”

The Hospitaller nodded grimly. “Don't worry about us, lad, be on your way. God go with you.”

Despite their exhaustion the three friends broke into a run and headed off into the trees to find the horses.

“Pray for us,” Robin shouted over his shoulder.

* * *

A huge stretch of Ermine St, the main road connecting York and London amongst other places, was currently occupied by the great entourage that accompanied King Edward II on his travels around the country. He had spent much of the year visiting many of the towns and cities under his dominion, and planned to continue on until at least winter.

Travelling with him were an enormous number of people. From clerks and chaplains to cooks and bakers, and following behind them all came a goodly number of prostitutes and other undesirables who saw to the...
needs
, of the royal household which also included Edward's own personal bodyguard of twenty-odd archers and even more sergeants-at-arms.

It was late afternoon and they'd come from York with their destination being Castleford just a short distance south-east of Leeds, where they'd stop for the night. The king mostly enjoyed these journeys, often whipping his horse into a gallop and laughing at the freedom he felt as the great beast carried him off, away from the hangers-on and toadies that followed him everywhere.

Of course, his guards would keep him in sight at all times so he was never in any real danger – it would be an utterly insane criminal that tried to hold-up a royal party of such a size – but to Edward it was a wonderful release from the tedium of everyday politics, in-fighting and manoeuvering that seemed to occupy most of his time. 

It had been a while since the king had treated himself and his mount to a mad dash into a field or along a minor road and he was beginning to get restless. The sun would remain high overhead for a while yet and it was swelteringly hot as a result, which was the only reason he'd held himself in check as his aides continually tried to engage him in trivia and matters of court which he really couldn't be bothered with.

“Boy!” Edward turned his head to look over his shoulder and gestured to one of the servants that remained near to him at all times. The lad's mount was laden with a wine-skin which he emptied into a silver, beautifully decorated chalice as he rode up to take his place respectfully behind the monarch. The wine, an extortionately expensive Malmsey from Italy, was warm, which rather spoiled the delicate taste, but it was refreshing nevertheless and Edward swallowed it quickly, wiping his handsome face with a big hand before tossing the near-priceless cup back to the boy whose eyes opened wide, terrified in case he should fumble the catch and damage it.

Edward looked back to the road, unaware of the terror he'd instilled in the poor page and gazed along the road into the distance, taking in the lush green, rolling hills, colourful fields with their various crops growing, blue, near-cloudless sky and watched as the heat made ripples on the horizon. Ah, it was terribly hot, but by God, England –
his
England – was a glorious land!

His eyesight was good and since he'd taken up position right at the very front of the great procession he was able to see for miles around. He caught a slight movement in his peripheral vision and turned to the left to get a better look, squinting against the sun's glare.

“Horsemen.”

The captain of his guard kicked his horse forward to trot by the king's side, watching for himself as the shapes in the distance came closer, resolving eventually into three distinct figures, brown cloaks billowing behind them as they galloped towards the main road across a field.

The captain gestured to his men to draw their weapons and move into defensive positions all around the lengthy procession while he stayed by his master's side, hand ready on the pommel of his sword. The horsemen didn't appear to be coming in their direction – indeed they seemed oblivious to the king's presence on the road – but they had the look of soldiers about them and the captain wanted to be ready should they prove to herald a much larger force of possibly hostile men.