Shadow of the Wolf (2 page)

R
obin crouched in the long grass, gripping his hunting pack, his father’s shortbow strapped across his back. He kept his hood raised. He had smeared his face grey-green with a mixture of ash and dyer’s weed.

He peered into Wodenhurst. The village was waking, shutters opening, spilling voices still hushed from sleep. Nearby a baby was crying, and further off came the creaking of the waterwheel and the barking of a dog. It was a cold, bright dawn, woodsmoke hanging hazy above the roofs.

He looked towards his old home, standing square and solid at the top of Herne Hill. From this distance it looked exactly as it always had, and just for a moment he imagined he could walk into that house and there his family would be sat: his brothers with their boots pulled off, their feet stretched out near the fire; his mother, at the window, softly singing of a journey home; his father leaning close, listening intently.

The next moment the illusion was shattered: Warin Felstone ducked out of the house. He pushed back his shoulders, arching his spine, before walking down into the village. Next emerged his wife, Mabel, and then their children, Narris, Richard and Ida, the two younger ones pinching one another and squabbling.

So, the path was clear. The frosted grass crunched as Robin left his hiding place. He darted through High Field, running low to the ground. He looped around the orchard and the croft and he came to the front of his old home. He went inside and hurried through the silent, gloomy house.

He went to the sleeping chamber he once shared with his brothers. It was cold and dark. He opened the shutters – a gust of wind whipped in, scattering the floor rushes. He went to a far corner and knelt on the packed earth. He took out his hunting knife and he began to dig.

The hole widened and deepened. He was so intent on his work that at first he didn’t notice someone had come to stand in the doorway. The figure moved to the window and his shadow fell across Robin.

Warin Felstone was holding an adze in one hand, an axe in the other. He propped the tools against a wall and crossed his arms. ‘Narris thought he saw you lurking,’ he said. ‘How long is this going to continue, Robin? What if your father could see you now, the way you’re living? Look at me when I’m talking to you. And you can start by telling me what in Woden’s name you’re doing.’

Robin continued digging. Mabel Felstone came bustling into the room, short of breath. ‘Mother’s mercy, Robin, it’s true.’ She said. ‘How long since we’ve set eyes on you? I was beginning to think you’d caught your death, it’s grown so cold. Or worse, the bailiff had got his hands on you. Hold still, let me get a proper look – check you’re not wasting away. What’s all this on your face? So long spent in those woods you’re turning green.’

She licked a thumb and reached through the curtain of Robin’s long, mud-matted hair. She rubbed at his cheek. Robin pushed her hand away.

‘We’ve been patient,’ Warin said, coming away from the
window. ‘But it’s time to start putting this behind us. This stupid feud with Narris and the rest, I’ve told them it has to stop, but I can’t do it alone. You have to start showing them you belong. The first step is to get you pulling your weight. We need every pair of hands. On top of everything else the storm damaged the spirit fence, and the Walking will come around, soon as we know it.’

Mabel rubbed at her eyes. She clasped one of Robin’s hands in both of hers. ‘We miss them too, Robin, you know that, don’t you? It’s been hard for every one of us since … since they left. But sooner or later life has to carry on. Please say you’ll come back, live here with us. This is still your home, as much as it is ours.’

Robin pulled back his hand. He took from the ground a small pinewood casket – his woodsman’s cache. Inside was a fresh bowstring; two boar-tusk bodkins; a spare flint for his strike-a-light; a whetstone to sharpen his knife. When he had buried these things, the previous spring, it had been only to keep them hidden from his brothers. But now, with winter approaching, these objects could prove vital. He put each one in his hunting pack. He stood and raised his hood.

‘This isn’t my home,’ he said. ‘And you’re not my parents. You can’t tell me what to do.’

As he spoke he was already moving towards the wall, and before Warin could stop him, quick as a squirrel, Robin leaped into the window and squeezed through and jumped down to the ground. He moved swiftly around the house, scattering the magpies that were in the orchard, squabbling over fallen fruit. He headed down into the village, following the twisting lanes between the homes.

People were emerging and setting about their work. Pagan Topcroft and Stephen Younger and the rest of their oxgang were armed with sickles and were heading for Far Field.
William Tanglefoot was hobbling around with the ducks, casting feed. Agnes Poley and Matheu Plowless were going to help repair the spirit fence, walking up toward Woden’s Ride carrying sharpened stakes and the sun-bleached skulls of sheep. A few of these people looked at Robin as he passed. One or two shook their heads, or turned away as if he wasn’t there. Robin didn’t care; he kept his hood raised and went on his way.

He walked beneath the granary and the hayloft, standing on their struts. He passed between the smokehouse and the slaughter-shed. And all the time he was passing beneath the great arching boughs of the Trystel Tree. The ancient oak, covered in burns and lightning wounds, wrapped in vines thick as rope, rose from the centre of the village. It spread its limbs so low and so far and so heavy through the lanes that many of the villagers had used them as top-beams for their barns or the rear walls of their homes.

Joylessly, through habit only, Robin leaped onto a low branch and walked along it, toe-to-heel, his arms outstretched for balance, the way he had done so many times with his brothers – Mogon’s Well and Cooper’s Corner passing beneath his feet. The branch came to rest and he jumped off. He crossed the creaking bridge that ran across Mill Pond.

He was passing the boundary stone, leaving the village, when raised voices stopped him. He looked back and saw Swet Woolward and Alwin Topcroft, heading his way. At their head was Narris Felstone, gripping in his solitary hand a fencing post, scratching at his ear with the stump of his left arm.

Robin didn’t feel like tangling with Narris and the others today. He turned and broke into a run. Ahead of him Silver River glistened as it wound into the valley. He followed its course, two otters barking at him before diving out of sight, herons taking flight, a fox watching him from the far bank.

At Bel’s Bridge he stopped and looked back. Narris and the others had followed no further than the boundary stone, content to strut there back and forth, still watching Robin, laughing among themselves.

Work had begun now at the spirit fence – the
whump-whump
of hammers drew Robin’s eyes up to his old home, and up further, to Woden’s Ride, where the villagers were working at the forest edge. He couldn’t help looking higher still, to the shadowy movements stirring above. There, looming over Wodenhurst, dwarfing even the Trystel Tree, was the
black-green
mass of Winter Forest, stretching up and away with the hills, its highest reaches lost in low cloud.

The wind was picking up, making the wildwood churn. He listened to its whooshing roaring noise, and he stared, transfixed …

For three days and three nights he had wandered lost in the wildwood, shivering in the rain, running from visions in the mist. He remembered little of the ordeal – scattered impressions only – the half-glimpsed face of a young girl; an uncanny laugh.

But he did remember, all too distinctly, finding at last the path he had followed with his father, stumbling along it and finally breaking free of the forest.

And then staggering down into Wodenhurst, and drawing close to his home …

Finding it dark and deserted.

His family vanished.

‘They were heartbroken,’ Mabel Felstone told him tearfully, in the days that followed. ‘Your father came back alone, silent with grief, near madness. Those who get lost in Winter Forest are never found, you know that – never until now. They thought you were gone for ever. Your father blamed himself, and it was more than he could stand. They left that same day,
taking a few things, barely saying a word to any of us. They left to start afresh – is all I can think – to try to forget.’

None of this made much sense to Robin. He couldn’t begin to understand why his family would leave without him, or how his father had let it happen. He told himself he didn’t care
how
or
why
. His family were no longer here; he didn’t know how to find them. Nothing else mattered.

He managed to turn away from Winter Forest. He stepped onto Bel’s Bridge and balanced across the frosted, moss-covered log. He entered Summerswood, following the man-made hunting paths and crossing the open rides.

His stomach was growling. He went to his shelter, and his smoking frame, where he had left strips of cured rabbit meat. He reached inside the frame eagerly. But the meat was gone.

He checked the soil for the claw marks of a badger; he looked for signs of a clever crow. But no, as he had suspected, this had been a human thief. Nearby he found proof: footprints, child-sized. Who had been here? Who was it, kept stealing his food?

He foraged for hazelnuts and blackberries and butterball mushrooms. He returned to his shelter and sat outside it and ate his meagre meal. He took the whetstone from his pack and sharpened his knife. In the distance the sound of hammers had stopped: the villagers must have gathered at the foot of the Trystel Tree, sharing bread and ale. There was a clink of metal, and a cheer: Narris Felstone and the others, throwing horseshoes on the common ground.

I hate them all. I wish they were dead.
It was a terrible thing to think, but sometimes he couldn’t help it. She was a liar, Mabel Felstone. She didn’t miss Robin’s family. None of them did. Listen to them now, as if nothing had ever happened, and nobody had a care.

Robin was vaguely aware that today was his birthday. Today
he turned eight years old. It wasn’t important. A cold wind was blowing through Summerswood; leaves were falling like rain. He needed to cut twine and collect pine branches to build his shelter warmer. He needed to start stockpiling food. One day his father would return, of that he had no doubt. And when he did he would see Robin had needed nobody’s help, and he would be proud.

Robin finished his meal. He tested the keen edge on his hunting knife, then he took the blade and set about his work.

R
obin woke knowing someone was creeping close to his shelter.

He sat up, very slowly, and crouched on the balls of his feet. He tried to peer through the weave of the walls. He saw little in the dim dawn light. But he knew who this was outside: Narris and Swet and the rest.

He closed his eyes and listened. How many of them had come? What did they carry with them this time?

Twice in recent months Robin had woken to the smell of something foul dripping through the roof of his shelter, and the sound of Narris and the others running away, laughing. After each attack Robin had retreated deeper into Summerswood. He had coated this new shelter in brambles, so from afar it looked like any other blackberry bush.

But he had not been careful enough. The boys from the village had found him. They were being very quiet – barely a leaf cracking – a single twig snapped – it was more of a
feeling
Robin had that they were skulking, very close.

He sensed them drawing nearer, nearer—

He burst from his shelter, throwing himself on the nearest intruder, grappling their legs, Robin’s head colliding with their stomach – a winded cry of surprise and alarm – the two
of them sprawling together to the earth, Robin scrapping wildly and silently and whoever it was fighting back, scratching and biting and hissing at him through bared teeth and then screeching a high-pitched wail and finally spitting out words, furious and garbled.

‘Gedoff lemeego stoppit leggo gedoff leggoff!’

Robin understood several things at once: the intruder was alone; it was not Narris Felstone or anyone else from the village. It was a stranger. It was a girl.

He eased his grip. The girl slipped out of his grasp and sprang away and crouched there, her back arched, poised on bare feet and fingertips, fixing Robin with a dark, fierce glare.

‘You hit me!’ she shouted. ‘How dare you – who are you – what are you doing in my woods I’ll have you thrown in gaol and you’ll stay there living on bread and water for the rest of your life which in any case won’t be very long because I’ll have my father’s knights chop off your head and put it on a spike so everyone can see what happens to a filthy stinking wretch who dares put his hands on a duchess – which is practically a princess – how dare you, you hit me, you’ve
drawn blood
!’

This went on for a long time, the girl ranting and raging, barely taking a breath, until she sounded ready to choke.

And then, abruptly, like a summer storm parting, she fell quiet. She stood upright. Her top lip was bleeding. Her tongue appeared and licked it clean.

‘Who are you?’ she said. ‘Where did you come from? I’d think you were a woodwisp, appearing out of thin air, but you can’t be, because wisps can’t be touched.’ She came forward and lifted a finger and prodded Robin in the chest. ‘What are you, then? A wildling, raised with the fawns? Yes, that’s it. You can’t talk – you know the language of the birds but no human words. So, this is where you were hiding. You’ve even got a
bed, sort of – what’s it made of, ferns? I slept under a bush, with tree roots and stones and even a toad. I don’t know how animals stand it, living in the woods.’

The girl had moved past Robin and was peering into his shelter. She was wearing an elegant dress made of some fine material, but it was scuffed with dirt and torn on thorns. Her tawny-brown skin was heavily scratched. Her hair, dark as a forest hawk, was tied in two ragged plaits and fell almost to her bare feet. She turned and looked at Robin and he saw her hazel eyes were mismatched: one flecked grey and one flecked green.

‘You’re the thief,’ Robin said: ‘You’re the one who steals my food.’

‘So, you
can
talk, after all. Did you lurk near homes at night, piecing together what you heard? Yes, that’s it. I know all about wildlings. My mother used to read me a story about … wait, what do you mean,
steal
? I didn’t steal anything. These are
my
woods, and anything in them belongs to me. Including you, now I come to think of it. And anyway, I—’

The girl froze and fell silent. She was scowling. Robin heard voices in the distance. The clattering wings of a wood pigeon. Two men, on horseback, were heading in their direction. They were moving down one of the wide rides that sliced through Summerswood.

The girl turned and ran. Robin found himself following. She darted through a coppice of lime trees. She went to hands and knees and crawled through a hole in a deer fence and into the timber enclosure beyond. She fled across this open ground, between pine saplings sprouting in uniform rows.

Robin caught up with her at an old standard oak. She was scurrying into its branches. Robin climbed. He found the girl at the top, in the tree’s flattened crown.

‘This is Oldcastle Oak,’ she whispered between breaths.
‘Yesterday I defeated its garrison and claimed it as my own. You’re lucky I let you come up. You can stay only if you promise to be quiet, and if you help me defend, if we come under siege. Now, shush.’

The horsemen drew closer. A voice became clear. ‘Come on out, Lady Marian, he’s not angry, not yet. He sent us with this. Look what we’ve got. Your favourite, Mistress Bawg had it made especial. Capon, foxwhelp. Honey and spice. It smells so good, you’d better hurry, or I’ll eat it myself.’

Robin could see the riders clearly now. They wore blue tabards embroidered with the image of twin crows, their wings outstretched. They moved closer – close enough to smell the pie one of the men was holding. The girl’s stomach rumbled. She glared at Robin, as if he was the one making the noise.

‘Lady Marian, that’s enough,’ one of the men called. ‘Your father goes back to Aragon any day now, had you forgotten. How displeased will he be if he doesn’t see you before he leaves? I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes, next time he returns.’

Between their shouting, Robin heard the men muttering among themselves.

‘… as if we need this, again, and now of all times …’

‘… bigger things to worry about …’

‘… playing wet nurse to that precious little …’

But their words were becoming harder to hear, their shouting growing faint once more as they passed Oldcastle Oak and kept going, following a hunting trail west through the wood.

Robin raised himself to his knees. From this height he could see the entire length of the valley. To the north, Wodenhurst, huddled on its hillside. And on the southern slopes the Delbosque manor, its whitewashed towers shining pink in the morning sun.

‘Is that where you come from?’ he whispered, pointing. ‘Do you live there?’

‘I did, once, but not any more. I’m never going back.’

‘Never?’

‘No, never. Never ever never.’

She fell quiet. More horsemen were entering Summerswood. From somewhere unseen came the barking of bloodhounds. Robin told himself he should leave this tree immediately and find his own hiding place. One of his earliest memories was of the day the lord’s bailiff had come to Wodenhurst, and with him were three of these men-at-arms, with the twin crows on their tabards. They came dragging Narris Felstone by the hair. The Bailiff said Narris had been caught trapping squirrels in Summerswood and he made all the villagers watch while he punished Narris with the loss of a hand.

Today these dangerous men were out in force – all of them searching for this girl at his side. Being anywhere near her was lunacy. But Robin looked at Marian and he didn’t move.

He watched yet more riders entering the wood.

He said: ‘I know a better place to hide. Somewhere they’ll never find us.’

Without waiting for a reply, he scampered down the tree. He heard Marian following, close behind. He headed out of the greenwood and then led the way, toe-to-heel, across Bel’s Bridge. A wet wind blew in their faces as they ran up the valley and squelched through the marshy land to the south of the village. They arrived at Hob’s Hollow. Robin pushed inside and Marian followed.

Hob’s Hollow was a low, damp place, full of moss and
rotting
logs. Tucked between two hillocks, it was permanently cast in deep shade. Even in summer, when it was hot outside, to enter this place made your skin prickle with chill. In autumn the mist never burned away.

‘Perfect,’ Marian said, rubbing her arms, squelching around in the grotto. ‘The perfect hiding place. I bet there are haunts and spectres – children who wandered in and were never found. I
felt
one! It passed straight through me! Turn around, touch the ground, something borrowed, something found …’

Robin shushed her. ‘We have to be quiet.’ He waded deeper into the bog, pushing through spear grass and lance thistle taller than he was. He hauled himself up onto a slimy boulder. This raised stand made a good place to watch from, and to listen. The valley was loud now with the sound of people calling for Marian. Not just men’s voices, but women and children too.

‘There are dozens of them,’ Marian said. ‘They’re
all
out looking. Servants and labourers and
everyone
!’

‘We have to be quiet,’ Robin hissed. ‘Rub mud on your arms, it will help hide your scent from the dogs.’

Marian made a disgusted face as she scooped mud from the edge of a green-gunk pool. But she did as Robin said, spreading the mud on her arms and legs.

The sounds from outside were coming through dull and heavy. People calling, and the barking of bloodhounds. Two buzzards mewing high above.

They hid there, wrapped in that cloak of mist. They waited.

It was a long wait. The search went on all day. Calling on his hunter’s patience, Robin sat still and quiet, ignoring the hunger twisting in his stomach.

Marian found it more difficult to wait. She whispered constantly, telling Robin the names of the people she heard searching, and which of them were her sworn enemies and who were allies. She poked around in the grotto, finding a
lizard and bringing it for Robin to see but dropping it and not being able to find it again between the roots and the rocks.

Only once did she stop talking and the silence made Robin look back. Marian had plucked a mushroom from the base of a tree and she was chewing.

‘No, stop!’ Robin hissed, springing from his rock. ‘Spit it out, spit it out.’

Marian coughed in surprise and she kept coughing and she spluttered the mushroom onto the ground.

‘Spit it all out, every bit,’ Robin said. ‘Look at the gills and the cap. That’s a destroying angel. Eat that and you’d be dead by morning. Don’t you know anything?’

Marian was silent, looking at Robin, wide-eyed. She scraped the last of the deadly fungus from her tongue. She went and sat on a moss-quilted log, hugging her arms.

After a while, she said: ‘I know more than you. I know what penumbra means, and chthonic, and I know how to spell metamorphosis in Latin, French
and
Spanish, and I know how many ducats you get in exchange for a pound. I bet you don’t know any of that. All you know is stupid woods stuff. Anyway, I knew that was a destroy angel, I just forgot.’

Robin wasn’t looking at her. He had gone back to sit on his boulder.

The day drew on. Marian sulked and fidgeted, and began again to explore Hob’s Hollow. Her stomach rumbled. They waited.

‘Look, they’ve gone,’ Marian said. ‘Every one of them. We’ve won.’

The day was coming to a close, a damp gloaming seeping into the hills. The raucous call of rooks and crows, squabbling over the best roosts.

They left Hob’s Hollow cautiously. Marian was right: the
final horseman was a dot in the distance, heading back to the manor house. Marian was moving in the same direction. She broke into a run.

‘Where are you going?’ Robin said.

‘Home.’

Robin stopped. ‘What do you mean … home? But … we hid. All day. And now … they’ll catch you.’

‘Can’t be helped,’ she called back. ‘I need a bath or I’ll start to smell like you. And I’m famished. Supper time. They didn’t catch us, that’s what counts. We won!’

Her words had become faint. She kept running. Robin watched her become small in the distance, joining Packman’s Furrow, then starting up Lord’s Hill, and he watched her dwindle further until finally she faded into the gloaming and was gone.