Shadow of the Wolf (31 page)

W
ill stood beneath the crow’s companion, looking up. The resemblance was uncanny: the same shape to her nose and mouth; a similar figure, and matching hair. Her injuries made it all the more difficult to tell the difference from afar.

But from this distance Will could see what Robin Hood must have sensed all along: it was not Marian in this cage. This was some other poor wretch, dragged from her village no doubt simply because of her beauty – because she had the misfortune to resemble Marian Delbosque – then tortured close to death purely so she would serve as effective bait for Robin Hood.
But Robin wasn’t fooled or distracted for an instant. The Sheriff underestimated his new foe.

Will looked at the villagers. Most were gathering their belongings, preparing to take their chances on the road. Much Millerson and his son, Midge, had come to stand with Will and Ironside and Borston Black.

‘Last chance to change your mind,’ Will said to Much Millerson. ‘You know what being outlaw means? It makes us lower than wild beasts. It will be the duty of every person in England to kill us on sight, without pause or question. Anyone who so much as offers us food or shelter will be outlawed
themselves. If you go with the others, if you travel far enough, you might be forgotten.’

‘He destroyed my home,’ Much said. ‘He burned my friend and would have done the same to me. He would have deprived Midge of a father.’

He didn’t need to say more. Will nodded. ‘So, first we need to bury these men,’ he said. ‘And then we have to find cover. It’s no good heading to a town or village – there’s going to be a hefty reward on our heads. There’s only one place left to go.’

‘Leave this place,’ said Robin Hood. ‘You don’t belong here.’

Will Scarlett had led them deep into Winter Forest, all the while with the feeling they were being watched, or followed. Now they were lost, and it would soon be dark.

‘We’re not rangers any more,’ Will called. ‘We’re outlaws, same as you. We can help each other.’

‘I don’t need your help.’

Still they had seen no glimpse of Robin Hood. His voice seemed to emerge from all sides at once. It seemed to come out of the ground before whispering away through the leaves.

‘He won’t underestimate you again,’ Will said. ‘Next time he’ll come with an army.’

‘Leave this place.’ Robin’s voice howled heavy, making the aspen leaves tremble and the saplings bow their heads.

‘You struck him a blow the way nobody has ever done,’ Will said. ‘Let us join you and others will follow. We have experience. We can organize weapons, training.’

‘This is your final warning.’ Robin’s voice rumbled up through the roots and the trunks of the trees. Birds took flight, squirrels shrieked and magpies cackled and the entire forest seemed to take up the threat.

Leave this place.

Will ran his swollen tongue across dry lips; he weighed the danger against their desperation. He was putting the others at great risk.
But they have nowhere else to go. This is their only hope.

‘Think of Marian,’ he said. ‘The Sheriff talked of the role he wants her to play. I think she must still be alive.’

At last he caught sight of Robin Hood – a faint shape standing against a king oak. He was wrapped head to toe in his cloak, the fur of it seeming to change colour even as Will watched, streaking with white and grey as the mist thickened. He held his bow horizontally, at chest height. It was fully drawn.

Will sucked in a breath, tried to swallow. ‘We can help Marian, together. Or you can kill me now, and do the Sheriff’s work for him.’

There was a long silence. The bow shifted in Robin’s hands. He was gone.

Robin crouched out of sight, listening to Will Scarlett and the others. They smelled of blood and scorched skin and one of them was shaking violently as the shock set in. They had made camp on a bank of the river, where the water was deep and slow. The one called Much Millerson had been bathing his burns and Will Scarlett was cutting him bandages from an old tunic. The one called Ironside came to sit beside Much Millerson. Ironside said: ‘You were useful with those fists. Where’d you learn to fight like that?’

‘He’s the champion of the seven shires,’ blurted the youngest one, the one called Midge. ‘Northridge and Sothley and Sidbarrow and all the rest, they send their best fighters, every Michaelmas, and they go away beaten, every one.’

‘You didn’t see anything today,’ Much Millerson said. ‘You should see Midge here when he wears the leathers. He’s
twice as fast as his father. Here now, son, slow down with that wine.’

They had brought food and drink with them – supplies left behind by the Sheriff’s men. Midge Millerson, shaking with shock, had been grabbing the wineskin every time it passed near.

‘This Robin Hood,’ said the one called Borston Black. ‘He’s watching us, isn’t he?’

‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Will Scarlett. ‘If we’re lucky he’ll decide we’re worth saving. None of us knows how to survive out here. This time of year we won’t starve, or die of cold, but what about in winter?’

‘I suppose we do as other outlaws do,’ said Ironside. ‘Move from village to village, begging what we can, stealing what we can’t. Taking shelter in the cowsheds, amid the heat of the cattle. Not a pretty picture, is it?’

‘And how many last long, that way?’ said Will. ‘How long before somebody gives us up for the silver? We need to take root – make the forest our home and our fortress, the way Robin has.’

Robin listened to all this with a rising sense of dread. He felt sick to the core, and drained, as he always did after giving vent to the killing rage. How many lives had ended in that village? And for what? The Sheriff survived.

And now Will Scarlett and these others wanted to add their strength to Robin’s …

Let us join you and others will follow.

What had he started?

When the fearful become strong, that is when the world burns.

He moved away from these people. They were unimportant. Marian was alive: that was all that mattered. He would find her and free her; he needed nobody’s help. He left Will Scarlett and the others by the riverbank and he loped away, alone.

He became aware of the vixen-girl, moving nearby, watching him. In his imagining she was taking on a woman’s curves. And as she moved closer he noticed something new about her. It was her heartbeat … no, her heart
beats.

Inside her was a second, much softer pulse.

He remembered those sensations in the river, and her words to him later.
We’ve planted the seed; now it must grow.

He pushed the vixen-woman from his mind. He would have nothing more to do with her schemes. He refused to even think about this new development, and what it might mean. Only Marian mattered. She was out there, somewhere, waiting. He moved away to prepare for a journey, and to begin his search.

B
ishop Raths looked through the spyhole at Marian Delbosque. At first glance he had to admit the Prime Warden was correct: she certainly looked harmless enough. Barely a spark of life left in her. She was alone in a circular prayer garden, beneath the shade of potted trees. Like the rest of the girls she was dressed in a simple grey smock. She was sitting upright on her knees, resting back on her heels, working at something in her lap.

At the Inquisitor’s side the Prime Warden huffed and fussed with his moustache. ‘This is a waste of time,’ he said. ‘You won’t learn anything from these girls. Especially not this one. The first time they brought her here she was a spitting demon. You couldn’t go near her if you wanted to keep all your fingers. So they put her in the hole and left her there for three months. Three months! I’ve never known anyone last three weeks. And one day she just cracked. She tried to take her own life. Beat her head against a wall. That’s how she got that scar, see it, near her eye? They fixed her up and brought her out tame as a kitten. She’s barely uttered a word since. She hardly moves unless you move her. I assure you, she’s quite broken.’

‘What is that around her neck?’ the Inquisitor said.

‘A talisman. Half an arrowhead, made of jade. In those early days we had a fight to get it off her. When we gave it back it made her calmer. But that was before. You could probably take it away now and she wouldn’t even notice. Like I say, she’s a turnip.’

A breeze blew and lifted Marian’s hair away from her face and Bishop Raths got a clear view of her numinous grey-green eyes. She was the most alluring of all the girls, without doubt. Even her single scar – her solitary blemish – managed to be picturesque. It was a moon shape on her temple, curving perfectly around her right eye. A wasp buzzed near her face, but she didn’t move to brush it away. Yes, it appeared the Prime Warden was correct: she looked quite docile.

And yet …

An idea began to form. The Inquisitor scratched his powdered chin. He folded his bony hands one across the other and he felt the pieces start to fall into place.
Ah yes. Now then.

‘This is a waste of time,’ Killen Skua said again. ‘You won’t learn anything here.’

The Prime Warden had been saying this over and over, ever since the Inquisitor arrived at this strange place. They called it the Garden of Angels. It was a fortified convent, five miles outside the city. Killen Skua had come to greet him at the front gates, and they walked together through the grounds. After a week of rain it was a rare sunny day; most of the young women were sitting in the open-air cloisters. Some stared silently into space, others took turns to speak passages from their bibles.

There were angels everywhere, painted on the walls, carved into stone, hanging from the beams of the arcades. Messenger angels and avenging angels; angels of love and peace and war. The sounds were of doors closing softly, of slow footsteps and gentle conversation. Very quietly, out of sight, somebody was
crying. There was a single peal of laughter, incongruous amid the hush.

‘What’s this all about?’ the Prime Warden had said.

‘I’ve been tasked with an investigation,’ the Inquisitor replied. ‘I don’t suppose it’s any longer a secret: the Sheriff is dying.’

‘Yes. Some news reaches us even here. An outlaw shot an arrow in his leg.’

‘No, not that. A flesh wound, merely. Perhaps it served to hasten his decline. But no, the Sheriff is suffering something more deadly.’

‘He is? Well, what do you expect to learn here? Whatever happens in the outside world, it has little to do with us. There could be war out there and we’d barely feel a ripple. You’re wasting your time.’

The Inquisitor smiled. ‘I presume you appreciate your posting here, Master Skua? A pleasant place to work, compared with guarding the labour pits, or the torture chambers? Like you, I have a lot to lose if the Sheriff dies. You will forgive me if I leave no stone unturned in my search for the would-be assassin.’

‘Assassin?’

‘I believe someone is killing the Sheriff.’ The Inquisitor stopped to watch four young women who were plaiting one another’s hair.

‘Killing him?’ said Killen Skua. ‘Who? How?’

‘That is what I intend to discover.’

‘But why come here? These young women, they’ve been with us three, four years, some of them. They’ve not set toe in the world outside. What could they possibly know that we don’t?’

The Inquisitor dropped the hood of his cowl. He studied the prisoners, one by one. He began to feel strangely sorry for
Killen Skua and the other guards: it must be an exquisite kind of torture, to be surrounded by such creatures, so close and yet forever out of reach. He gripped the hem of his cassock and continued through a fragrant bower. So far he had seen nothing to shed light on the mystery.

But then they had come to Marian Delbosque. And the Inquisitor felt a shiver of discovery.
Ah now … Yes, this is interesting
. He watched Marian working deftly with the thread and cloth in her lap, her needle flashing on and off in the dappled sunlight.

‘And they can have anything they ask for?’

‘Anything short of the front door key,’ the Prime Warden said. ‘The Sheriff says they should be occupied. They have the run of the gardens, and the grounds this side of the river. There’s room enough to trot a horse. They do some archery, callisthenics of various sorts. A few of them even like to swing a practice sword. Silly, I know, but they seem to enjoy it. We have a set hour for each pursuit, of course. Some of the girls can be quite … wilful. But not this one. Since they returned her to us Marian has done exactly as she’s told. We’ve not once had cause to quieten her with one of our treatments.’

‘And how does Marian use her free time, when it’s permitted?’

‘She works in her garden, most days. And she does a lot of what she’s doing now. Tailoring. Needlework. She’s quite skilled, in fact, and it seems to satisfy what’s left of her mind.’

‘I see. And I presume she dyes the clothes she makes. She asks for berries, roots for the dyes?’

‘Well, I’m not certain. I think she—’

‘I want an inventory of every item Marian Delbosque has ever requested.’

‘You do. Well, I’ll have to check the pipe rolls. It could take some time.’

‘It will take precisely half a day. The details will be in my hands by prime hour tomorrow. The Sheriff will be notified as to reasons for any delay.’

‘I still don’t see what any of this—’

‘It seems to me, Master Skua, you don’t see a great deal. Or rather you see only what this young woman wants you to see. You’ve noted her reluctance to speak, her vacant gaze, and you’ve concluded that Marian Delbosque has died inside. But take another look. What about her hands? See the dexterity, the tenacity. Do they not look like hands with a purpose?’

Bells began to chime, calling the girls to noonday prayers. The Inquisitor took one last lingering look at Marian, congratulating himself, confirming his impressions. He gathered up his robes and headed for the front gate.

‘Watch those hands, Master Skua,’ he called back. ‘I believe those are the hands of a killing machine. A perfect, silent, invisible assassin.’