Shadow of the Wolf (7 page)

R
obin stood, at dawn, amid the remains of the Delbosque manor. Here and there ash still blew, eddying around his feet.

He pulled his cloak close as he picked his way between crumbled stone and blackened timber. His eyes followed the faint tracks of a fox. He knelt to examine the hardened footprints of crows. The scavengers had come no doubt to look for corpses amid the ashes. Was that why Robin had resisted coming here himself, in the weeks since the fire, in case he found signs that Marian had not been stolen away, after all, but had died that day in the flames? He dared to look closely now and he found only a dog’s skull and tiny bird bones, nothing girl-sized.

He went to where their tower had stood. It was toppled, its timbers poking through masonry like splintered bones. With his foot he turned over an object left strangely intact. It was one of Marian’s mother’s books, its cover charred but its pages still gleaming with pictures of monsters and gods.

He closed his fingers around the amulet at his chest. He squeezed tighter, felt the jade cutting into his palm, and he kept squeezing. Why had he been left behind, twice over? Why had Marian’s father done this, and where had he taken her?

He looked up the valley. He knew where he could go to vent his anger. He went to the edge of the manor, where he had left the willow bough, hung with the hare he had shot in the warrens. He hoisted the yoke and settled it across his shoulders, then followed Packman’s Furrow, climbing towards the village.

‘You’re not welcome here, turn around.’

‘Crawl back to your den.’

They had appeared from behind the threshing barn and now stood above Robin on Marsh Ridge. It was Alwin Topcroft and Lagot Reeve who had spoken, but as usual it was Narris Felstone who stood as their leader. All three carried short heavy sticks.

Only three of you
, Robin thought.
Three is barely even a fair fight.

They looked thin and sallow, these older boys. In recent years scorching summers had been followed by autumn floods: time and again the villagers’ crops had failed. Robin, in contrast, had grown tall and broad, his big hunting cloak no longer slumping from his shoulders.

‘And you can leave that,’ Narris said, pointing his stick at the hare. ‘We set snares. Our bait had gone but there was nothing there. Now here you are with our catch.’

Robin continued across Mill Bridge to the bank of the pond. He laid the hare on the ground. ‘Here it is,’ he said. ‘Come and take it.’

Narris ran his tongue across his lips. He was gripping his stick so hard his knuckles had turned white. Lagot and Alwin were stepping back.

‘Let him go, Narris,’ Lagot said.

‘We don’t want his food,’ Alwin said. ‘We don’t want anything he’s touched.’

Narris scratched at his face with the stump of his left arm. ‘It’s not that easy. He’s a thief. Thieves have to pay. No matter what.’ He raised his gaze, looking to the far side of the pond. Robin saw him nod.

So, there are more than three of you, after all.

He turned just in time to see Swet Woolward and Harmon Byeford rushing him from behind, thumping across Mill Bridge. And then they were coming at him from both sides, Narris yelling and leading the charge down Marsh Ridge and even Alwin and Lagot shouting and swinging their sticks now that they could see it was one against five.

Robin lashed out at his nearest assailant and he felt his fist connect with bone and in the next instant his world had shrunk to kicks and blows and the taste of blood and the feeling of hard earth and finally a cold deep churning and gasping for breath as his world turned over and swirled red and black.

At least three of the others had ended up in Mill Pond with him. By the time Robin pulled himself to the bank they were helping each other out of the reeds and were dragging themselves up through the village. Narris was limping, and it sounded like Alwin Topcroft was sobbing.

Robin was bleeding freely from a cut on his forehead; one hand was numb but the fingers still flexed.
Barely a scratch. They weren’t even trying.

But then he noticed something: his father’s shortbow was no longer strapped to his back. He looked for it and saw they must have taken that too, along with the hare.

Now
Robin’s rage was rising.

He stalked up into Wodenhurst, looking for Narris, looking for his bow.

As he moved through the lanes, beneath the boughs of the
Trystel Tree, he was met by silence, and by faces at windows, and children who came out to look before being dragged back inside. And finally, at the top of the village, he was met by a circle of armed men and women.

Pagan Topcroft was there, as nervous and rat-like as his son, gripping a mattock; and big Nute Highfielde, dumb as an ox, holding a threshing flail; and mean Agnes Poley, with her wildfowl net. There were eight or nine of them, and dizzy as Robin was he didn’t put up much of a fight before they had him in the net and were dragging him through the dirt.

‘He could have crippled my son,’ Pagan Topcroft was saying.

‘I saw the whole thing,’ Anges Poley said. ‘He attacked them with a stick.’

‘He tried to steal their meat,’ another voice said. ‘Food that could feed the whole village and he wanted it for himself!’

‘Put him in here, where an animal belongs.’

‘Where’s my bow?’ Robin shouted, thrashing within the net. ‘Give it back!’

They thrust him into an empty cowshed, slammed the door and bolted it and left him there in the dark, dripping wet and bleeding and cold.

Hours later, a voice at the door of the cowshed.

‘Robin, it’s me. And Mabel. Just us. We’re coming in.’

The door opened. Warin and Mabel Felstone moved inside.

‘I’ve brought you some of Narris’s clothes,’ Mabel said. ‘They’ll be a bit small for you now, but you should get out of those wet things.’

Robin was shivering, but he didn’t reach for the clothes. He remained sitting against one wall, his hood raised. Warin came close and laid Robin’s shortbow on the ground.

‘He shouldn’t have taken it,’ Warin said. ‘I don’t know who threw the first stone, and I don’t care. I just need this stupid war to stop. Here, I brought you this too. I’ve been using it in the coppice. But I’ve been thinking, your father would have wanted you to have it.’ He gave Robin a bone-handled knife in a buckskin sheath. It was his father’s old woodsman’s blade, serrated on one edge, slicing steel on the other.

‘Why now?’ Robin said, lowering his hood. ‘Why are you giving me this now?’

Warin removed his skullcap and gripped it in both hands. He and Mabel glanced at one another.

‘We’ve … I’ve come to a decision,’ Warin said. ‘You can’t come here, to Wodenhurst, any more. And Summerswood isn’t far enough. Every time you fight with those boys it gets worse. The ferocity, when you get like that, it’s frightening. It will end with one of you being killed. Unless I end it now.’

‘Warin is right,’ Mabel said, shuffling her feet in the straw. ‘I wish there was another way, but you’re not a child any more. There are scores of people in the city, of every sort, I’ve been there myself. You could find a place in the city, and build a life. You could—’

‘I am leaving,’ Robin said. ‘But not because you want me to. I’m leaving because I hate this place and everyone here. I’m going and you’ll never see me again.’

Mabel looked away and rubbed a hand at the back of her neck. Warin exhaled heavily.

‘Well … that’s … good,’ he said. ‘It’s … for the best.’

He looked at Mabel. She shuffled her feet, didn’t meet his gaze.

‘Well then, I suppose it’s now or never,’ Warin said. ‘We’ve put this off too long. Robin, there’s … something we need to tell you. Before you leave. The people here, they … we … haven’t always told you the full truth. Out there, wherever you
go, you will meet more fear, and more anger, of that I have no doubt. Wherever the road takes you, I want you to know—’

He was interrupted by sudden noises from somewhere down in the village. The barking of a dog, the jabbering of guard geese. The sounds grew louder. Children were running to look before being called away.

Warin left the cowshed. Robin followed, blinking into the sunlight.

As his eyes began to adjust he saw armed riders. A dozen square-shouldered men, swords and axes slung behind their saddles. The man in the lead was the most enormous person Robin had ever seen. He wore a bearskin that was as matted as his black-grey bush of a beard. The pommel of a broadsword protruded from a baldric at his back. His fingers were thick with rings.
Warlord
, Robin immediately thought of him, he looked so much like a Viking raider from one of Marian’s books.

‘You should leave,’ Warin said, turning to Robin. ‘Now is the time. Whatever this is, it’s our burden. You’ve no part in it.’

Robin kept watching. Stephen Younger was bustling his family back inside. Pagan Topcroft was calling for his daughter. Everywhere doors were closing and there were shuffling feet and whispers.

Most of the warriors had stopped near the mill, but the warlord and three of his thegns were continuing up Herne Hill, the hooves of their destriers slipping in the soft soil.

‘Robin, go,’ Warin said, sounding angry now. ‘This is for your own good, as well as for ours. Do you understand what I’m saying to you? If you ever come here again I cannot be responsible.’

Still Robin didn’t move. He watched the warlord say something to Robert Wyser, and he saw Robert point an
unsteady finger towards Warin Felstone, headman of the village. The riders continued up through the lanes, the breath of men and horses heavy in the sunlight. The warlord grew and grew until he was towering over Warin.

Warin went to one knee, twisting his cap. ‘My lord, we—’

The warlord lifted one hand; Warin fell quiet.

And it was then that Robin understood: the warlord had not come to stand over Warin Felstone.

He had come to look down upon Robin.

And when he spoke it was to say Robin’s name.

‘Robin Loxley. I am Sir Bors. I have been searching for you for some time. I have come to offer you shelter, and guidance. You needn’t ask why. There will be a time for questions, and answers. For now it is enough you should understand this: you are being offered an extraordinary gift. Have the sense to accept it with good grace.’

Sir Bors
. Robin’s mind was racing. He had heard that name before … Lord Delbosque and the Chamberlain had spoken that name, the night before the fire. What part did this man play in all that had happened?

‘You will come to my house, to live as my ward,’ Sir Bors continued. ‘You will be taught many skills and be shown the path to a useful and rewarding life. You are unlikely to see this valley or these people again. Say your goodbyes. Gather any belongings you might have. We have some distance to travel before nightfall. It’s time to leave.’

Robin’s instincts were telling him to run. He knew this valley; these men on their lumbering mounts would never catch him. He could hide until this daunting man went away.

But then he looked around him at the villagers – these people who had treated him with fear and anger and suspicion ever since his parents disappeared, for reasons Robin barely began to understand. Then he looked up at Winter Forest,
the wind whispering dark secrets at its edge.
Not yet. Too soon.
He must suffer the wounds.

Suddenly he wanted desperately to be away from this place. Wherever this man Sir Bors took him, anywhere would be better than here.

And so, when one of the thegns reached down a huge hand, Robin found himself lifting an arm to meet it, and the man was hoisting him onto the rear of his horse. And before Robin had time to question his decision, or even think too closely about why any of this was happening, the horse was turning and he was being carried down through the village and across Mill Bridge.

He didn’t look back, but he felt the villagers watching him. With every beat of the hooves he was leaving them and Winter Forest further behind, and with that idea came great relief.

But there was also sorrow. Because he was heading into the unknown, the way he and Marian had always dreamed.

But he was doing it alone. Without her.

And it was this idea, as Robin was carried away from his childhood home, that pricked hotly behind his eyes and made him fight hard to keep the tears from his cheeks.

R
obin’s world turns over, black and green.

It spins again, more violently. A rushing roaring in his ears.

Something – someone – thuds into his chest and the last of his breath bursts from his lungs, the bubbles rushing for the surface. He kicks after them – this is his final chance, if he doesn’t reach the air now he’ll drown – he comes up against a crush of bodies, thrashing limbs, and he is pushed even further down, and he is gripped by panic.

I’m going to die. Right here in this moat.

He kicks and scraps and thrashes. His foot connects with something solid and he thrusts himself upwards. His head breaks the surface – he can hear shouting and coughing.

Gasping for air, swallowing water, choking, he grabs at the bridging ladder. He gets a handhold. But then looming above him is an indistinct figure, ghostlike through sunlight and water. Something all too solid in the man’s hands – a quarterstaff – cracking down on Robin’s fingers, jabbing at his head, thrusting him away from the ladder.

Down again, and down further. The world turning.

Another body falling on top of him. Clawing at each other. The boom of underwater shouts.

And down still deeper, all light fading to black.

He’s made a mistake, and now it’s too late. He’s killed us all.

Two hours earlier this had been a peaceful place: an abandoned garrison fortress, set on its own wooded hill, the crumbled walls growing over with vines. But the peace had been shattered, the doves taking flight from their roosts as twenty-four young men in full plate armour began a gruelling endurance course.

Long ago the fortress had been undermined, and tunnels still ran beneath its foundations. The first stage of the course ran through these crawlspaces, Robin and his fellow squires clanking through them on hands and knees. Meanwhile bachelor knights fanned fires at every exit, sending heat and smoke billowing into the warrens so the squires inside were coughing and disorientated and desperate to be back at the surface.

Once they struggled free of the tunnels they found grappling hooks waiting – they were made to scale a
thirty-foot
wall, knights standing at the top, bombarding them with rocks. Next they ran ten circuits of the fortress, their muscles burning, the summer sun beating down, Sir Derrick – their combat instructor – barking at them to move faster.

And then, after all this heat and smoke and pain, Sir Derrick ordered them to the moat, and they were stripping off their plate armour and attempting to cross, bachelor knights swinging quarterstaffs so that each one of the squires was knocked from the bridging ladders before they could make it halfway across.

And that’s where Robin finds himself, unable to see further than his outstretched hand, his murky sphere turning over once again. Even without his plate mail, his leather
under-armour feels impossibly heavy, dragging him down to these black-green depths.

But then, abruptly, the panic drains away. He feels he is watching all this from afar. For a moment this is frightening – is this how it feels to be dead? – but when the fear passes he finds he is calm. With a new clarity he is aware of the other squires and their wild thrashing in the dark. In their desperation they are all trying to clamber aboard the two nearest crossings. And all the bachelor knights are there, defending.

Robin kicks clear and takes measured swimming strokes away from this mass of roiling bodies. He gets his head above water and gasps air. He keeps swimming, free of the tumult, ignoring the next bridging ladder and the next and heading for the one at the furthest edge of the moat. Here there is no one. With the last of his strength he drags himself from the water, staggers across the ladder and onto the bank, collapsing onto his knees, wheezing and wiping the gunk from his eyes and nose and coughing it all up onto the grass.

The final few squires had been dragged from the moat. They all stood in a line, bent double, fighting for breath. Robin fished something slimy from beneath his jerkin. The foul taste of the water rose again in his throat. But at last it was over. He could almost laugh with the relief of it. Once again it was peaceful out here in the late-summer sun, doves returning to perch on the fortress walls, crickets chirping in the long grass.

Sir Derrick strode up and down the line of squires, his bald head gleaming. ‘This is the beginning of a momentous week,’ he said. ‘You are excited. Apprehensive. That is to be expected. The squires’ tourney offers you a chance to shine in front of Sir Bors. It offers a chance to strut like peacocks in front of girls who have travelled from far and wide. And then
comes the tournament proper, bringing you face to face with your idols. I know you think of me as a monster. But I was your age once. I remember these feelings. In coming days there will be jousting, feasting, war games. A glorious prize to be won. What young man would not be thrilled by the prospect?’

He paused to swipe his willow switch across the calves of Rex Hubertson, who was lying flat on the grass. Rex staggered to his feet.

‘But,’ Sir Derrick said. ‘
But
. I am here to remind you that a warrior’s life is not pomp and pageantry. It is
not
waved handkerchiefs and lavish banquets. For a fighting knight real life is a mouthful of mud and pain that has sunk into your very bones. It is an endless march beneath a Moorish sun. It is the sight of your own blood in the snow and knowing you cannot go on, yet you must. In the coming days I want you to remember these facts. I want you to remember that a warrior’s life is spent toe-to-toe with death.’

Sir Derrick stopped at the end of the row, where the last squires to be dredged from the moat were coughing on their knees. He pointed at Egor Towers. ‘You. Take the lead. Back around the course. In reverse.’

‘But …’ Egor said, ‘I’m not … I can’t … I can barely … breathe …’

Sir Derrick lifted one foot, laid it on Egor’s shoulder, launched him backwards into the moat. He went to the next squire, kicked him into the water. And the next.

Further along the line, Robin and several of the others looked at one another. As exhausted as they were, they were not going to wait to be shoved.

Robin made a dash for the far crossing, ducked a quarterstaff, managed to stay on the ladder halfway across, but then hit the water.

And so it began again. Robin’s world condensed to
churning black-green slime and grasping weeds and bursting breath.

The squires dragged themselves, on foot, back towards the manor. They had survived a second running of the gauntlet, and a third, and now they had barely enough strength left to lift one stride in front of the other. Most of the squires were silent, but Bones and Irish were muttering at Robin’s side.

‘Tyrant. Pure luck none of us drowned.’

‘Or choked to death in those tunnels.’

‘We should go to Sir Bors. The man is a lunatic. Loxley, what think?’

Robin didn’t answer. From this ridge, looking across the hills, he could now see Sir Bors’ manor, stick figures patrolling the battlements, pennons flapping in the wind. At the south gate, beneath the vast flanking towers, a dray was arriving, carrying crates and barrels. Lower down, on the river, a barge stood at the landing stage, waiting to be unloaded. On the display ground, at the foot of the east wall, carpenters were erecting the spectator scaffolds, the rasping of saws and the
klonk-klonk
of hammers reaching the squires even at this distance.

Robin remembered thinking, a lifetime ago, that the Delbosque manor was massive and magnificent. It was a mud hut compared to Sir Bors’ domain. Here was a
fully-functioning
citadel, home to scores of craftsmen and merchants and clerics and military men. And today, with the tournament approaching, the citadel had never been busier. Each competitor brought with him grooms and pages and body servants, and was trailed by players and tinkers and bards. Many of these camp followers had to shelter under canvas, a separate town of tents growing outside the curtain walls.

Even now, another knight was arriving, a herald scampering
to the Tree of Shields and hanging it with the man’s coat-ofarms.

Watching all this, dragging one foot in front of the other, Robin was only vaguely aware that Bones and Irish were still moaning. Other squires were sharing a joke at Sir Derrick’s expense.

Robin felt no reason to complain. These were the best kind of days: the times their tutors worked them so hard it was impossible to think of anything else, or to remember. He imagined that when he finally collapsed into bed he would be too tired to even dream. Although on that front he had often been wrong.

Ahead of them the manor continued to fuss and scurry and thump. The squires continued to moan. Robin dragged himself silently and gratefully towards his bed.