Rise of the Wolf (10 page)

Aye, he was glad to be back in Lewes, even if he would badly miss his friends in Barnsdale. He just hoped the prior wouldn't make his life
too
miserable.

* * *

“You think you could take me, minstrel?”

Allan stood, watching Sir Guy of Gisbourne warily, wondering what was happening but knowing whatever it was wouldn't be pleasant.

“Eh? A man with one eye?  Look at you.” The Raven had appeared almost silently inside Allan's gloomy cell and now moved to grasp the minstrel's great arms firmly. “Strong. Younger than I am. Angry.”

Allan remained silent, warily watching his despised enemy but not wanting to bring any more trouble down upon himself. Robin's stories of his time in this very dungeon last year had been sickening, and the minstrel knew the bounty-hunter could turn violent at any moment if provoked.

“What do you want?” he asked, trying to keep Gisbourne in sight as the man continued to walk slowly around the cell, losing himself in the shadows where the light from the softly guttering torch he'd placed in the sconce on the wall didn't quite reach.

“I want to prove myself. Your friend hurt me badly not so long ago, and I'll never be the swordsman I was before Hood took my eye. I may never be able to shoot my crossbow very accurately either.” His hand caressed the stock of the weapon. “I was very fond of this crossbow too – it got me out of trouble more than once. Almost killed your friar companion too.”

Still he kept circling Allan, as if his feet were bewitched and he couldn't stop them moving.

“So what is it you want from me?”

“I want you to fight me, wolf's head. It's as simple as that.”

It had to be a trick. Allan wanted to grin and tell the king's man he'd be glad to beat the shit out of him but he knew Gisbourne was no fool and, despite the loss of an eye, was probably still deadly. He held his tongue and at last the black-armoured Raven stopped walking and glared at him.

They were about the same height, although the lawman was slimmer – wiry where Allan was broad-shouldered and brawny, so their eyes met across the dank cell although the smoke from the torch made the minstrel blink and Gisbourne nodded.

“I'm not supposed to be down in the dungeon – the sheriff's worried I'll try and carve you up like I did to Hood when he was here. But I don't have any intention of doing that. Your leader was, supposedly, a worthy opponent for me. The best swordsman in all England, people said of him. They were wrong – I was the best. But I had to prove it by facing Hood, blade in hand, one-on-one. I had the chance to do that when we captured him and brought him here.”

He shook his head. “I had him then – he was no match for me, despite what the ballads said about his skill. The sheriff stopped me from killing him but I proved I was the better swordsman.” He stepped in close again. “This isn't about that. I simply want to prove that I can still win a fight with a man that genuinely wants to murder me. Sparring with the guards here is pointless – they're frightened of hurting me, even when
I
hurt
them.
”

He moved back and looked out into the corridor, nodding to someone out of sight – presumably a guard – then turned back to face Allan.

“I have no real desire to kill you. De Faucumberg wants to hang you as part of the tourney's entertainment and who am I to deny the crowd their fun? No, I simply want to best you, man-to-man. No weapons other than those the good Lord gave us.”

Allan clenched his fists, mind whirling.

“If you win, you go free. You have my word. The guard outside has his orders to see you escorted safely to the Carter Gate. I'm afraid you'll have to climb a rope down into the latrine, just as your friends did not so long ago. Most unpleasant, but better than dying, no? The door to the outside has been replaced since Hood's escape through it, but the guard has the key to it.”

He began to swing his arms and stretch the muscles in his legs. “It's dark outside, you won't be spotted if you and your escort keep to the shadows.”

Allan didn't know how to respond. He still felt it had to be a trick but, as he stood looking at the door a blow suddenly rocked his head back and he stumbled, cursing and lifting his arms to ward off any more attacks.

“You have no choice, really,” Gisbourne growled, dancing from side to side and keeping out of Allan's reach. “Fight me or stand and be pounded into a bloody mess.”

He darted forward again but the outlaw flinched to the side, bringing up an arm in time to deflect the punch.

“You swear in God's name I'll be set free if I win?”

“In the name of God, the Christ and all his saints, I swear it,” Gisbourne replied, aiming another blow at the big longbowman who, again, managed to evade it easily enough.

Freedom was his. All he had to do was deal with this one-eyed bastard and he'd be in Barnsdale by the following evening. Of course, he'd been stuck down here for days with very little food or drink and he'd barely slept but...

He bared his lips in a feral grin and, as his opponent drew near once more, threw a haymaker of his own which just missed its target. “You have a deal, Gisbourne, you whoreson. I'm going to make you pay for all the shit you've done to us. You might not want to kill me, but I'll gladly crush the breath from you with my bare hands.”

The cell was only dimly lit and small too. Gisbourne had to be mad if he thought he could best the powerful wolf's head in here.

But he
is
mad,
Allan thought.
I need to finish this and get the fuck out of here.

Knowing the Raven was faster than him, he charged straight forward, hoping to crush the man against the wall where he could use his superior strength to hold Gisbourne in place and rain blows down on him.

As he began to move, though, he tripped over the lawman's foot and bright stars burst upon his vision as a punch landed on his cheek. Then another, as his attacker switched fists.

“I'll make up a good song about this, once I'm back in the forest,” Allan growled, raising his arms as Sir Guy stepped back and they faced off again. “I'll make sure everyone knows how easy it was to beat you, and how you shit your breeches when I throttled the life from you.”

He aimed a kick but Gisbourne caught it and jerked, throwing him off balance before battering his own foot into the minstrel's knee, dropping Allan to the floor with a shocked cry.

It hadn't done any real damage but the Raven followed it up with another boot, this time to his downed opponent's face.

Even with only one eye Gisbourne was fast. Allan hauled himself upright, flailing his muscular arms to avert any more attacks.

“I'm getting used to it now,” the bounty-hunter smiled, to himself more than Allan. “I thought I'd never be able to fight well without both my eyes but...”

He crouched as the outlaw roared and charged towards him, aiming a left uppercut that rocked Allan again although this time he did manage to grab hold of his tormentor.

Furiously, and with a sense of real fear beginning to set in, the minstrel put all of his weight into his knee, ramming it into Gisbourne's midriff. The blow hit home and he tried again, repeatedly, using both hands to try and keep his target in one place.

The Raven was as agile as a cat, though, and managed, after the first hit had knocked most of the wind from him, to keep his body away from the follow-up strikes before, finally, he twisted out of Allan's grip and poked a finger into his eye.

Dizzy from the blows he'd taken and the effects of his captivity, Allan knew he couldn't afford to give ground so, squinting desperately, he tried to regain his hold on Gisbourne, kicking his legs out in the hope of catching the bastard a sore one.

Suddenly, he felt an excruciating pain that started between his legs and quickly seemed to grow to fill his whole being.

Gisbourne grinned at him as he mercilessly tightened his grip on Allan's testicles, then he smashed his head forward and watched in triumph as the wolf's head fell to the floor making pitiful noises.

“Looks like you won't be going free today after all, minstrel.”

With a laugh, the Raven strode breathlessly from the room. As the lock clicked inexorably back into place it was all Allan could do to roar, “Bastard!” before he leaned his head back on the ground and prayed for the pain between his legs to subside.

The outlaws back in the camp near Selby carried on as normal while Robin and Little John were away. Will Scaflock naturally assumed command, being the obvious man for the job. Before Robin had joined them Will had been their previous leader's second-in-command. The men all respected him and even feared him a little, although the volcanic temper that had given him the nickname 'Scarlet' was, mostly, gone nowadays.

Still, for all that, to some of the outlaws their young leader's absence seemed something of a holiday for them; a time to relax and let down their guard a little, despite Will's watchful eye. It wasn't as if Robin was ever hard or unfair on the men – he was more like a friend than a commander to them all but, as ever when the person in authority goes away for a time, things became just a little more open than usual.

One person who took advantage of the more relaxed atmosphere was young Gareth. Of course, he was his own man and could do whatever he liked pretty much, but he didn't like to drink too heavily around Robin. His captain's disappointed gaze always made him feel ashamed and, as a result, he tended to keep his drinking to a more manageable level, so he wasn't stumbling around camp walking into the fire or tumbling into the nearby River Ouse.

But, with Robin and John away to God-knew-where and for who-knew how long, Gareth became more open in his inebriation.

Will tried to warn the lad about it, but the steely glare from the ex-mercenary wasn't as effective as the pitying look Robin gave him whenever he was obviously too drunk. Will simply didn't care as much as Robin.

It was with some exasperation, then, that Scarlet found the skinny youngster by the riverside on his own one evening, a half-empty ale-skin by his side and tears streaking his grubby face.

“What's the matter with you, lad?” Will's voice was gruff although he was trying his best to sound friendly. He really couldn't be bothered with other people's problems – he had enough bad memories of his own to deal with after all.

Gareth didn't even look up, just placed the ale-skin to his lips and took another long pull, careful not spill a drop as the older outlaw dropped down onto the grass next to him.

“You're going to kill yourself if you don't watch your drinking. That's up to you,” Will shrugged. “You're a big boy now, you can do what you like to yourself.”

Gareth turned his damp eyes to look at Scarlet, sensing the 'but' before it came.

“But you keep this up and you'll do something stupid one day, and bring trouble down on all of us.”

They sat in silence for a while, Gareth not too far gone to accept the rebuke without getting angry. He knew Will spoke the truth anyway, it was pointless disagreeing. He didn't
want
to drink every day; he just couldn't help it any more. Since he'd acquired a taste for the grain drink the barber in Penyston had given him he'd found solace in the cosy fugue that alcohol produced.

Recently his need had grown even worse.

“My ma's died.”

Will looked at the younger man in surprise. Gareth hadn't visited his home in Wrangbrook for weeks as far as he knew. The lad must have kept his bereavement to himself all that time. No wonder he'd been drinking more than ever – his mother was the only family Gareth had left. Now he had no-one.

“She had a shit life,” the young outlaw muttered distantly. “My da died when I was only about six or seven, I can hardly remember him. She always talked about him; they really do seem to have been good together, not like some folk in Wrangbrook. Or anywhere else for that matter, I suppose. She missed him badly although I think she was happy that I was around. Just as I was happy to have her.” His voice tailed off and a sob shook his thin frame.

“She had a job working in the fields in the summertime and did odd-jobs around the village in the winter months – mending clothes, brewing ale, things like that. We were all right, although we never had much to eat.”

Will watched Gareth speak but remained silent as he took in the spindly arms and legs the boy had been cursed with as a result of that childhood malnutrition.

“Then, one day when she was carrying a cask of ale to the inn she tripped and broke her arm. I mean, really broke it... the bone came right out through her skin, it was terrible.” He shook his head sadly. “We didn't have a surgeon in Wrangbrook, just the barber. He did his best but he didn't know much about injuries like that. My ma's arm knit together twisted and she couldn't work properly with it any more. She was in constant pain. I was about twelve then. I did my best to find work to put food on the table for us but, well... I'm not much good at physical labour. We had to survive on handouts from other villagers.”

He met Will's gaze, anger flaring in his tear-filled eyes. “It was humiliating! The people were kind and tried to help us but... it was so humiliating.”

“Is that why you stole the food from the chapel?” Will asked softly, knowing some of the lad's story although he'd never heard it in as much detail before.

Gareth nodded. “When I was fourteen I started stealing food whenever the neighbours hadn't given us enough to fill our bellies for the day. I could have just asked them, they would have given us more I expect, they were good people, but it was too embarrassing. So I would lift a loaf from the baker's shop or a pie from the butcher's. I was always careful and never got caught.” He stopped and stared thoughtfully at the dark waters of the Ouse. “Perhaps the baker and the butcher knew what I was doing and turned a blind eye.”

Will thought that likely, since Gareth, despite his small stature, was never that light on his feet or particularly nimble, but he held his peace, not wanting to hurt the lad's feelings.

“We had a visitor one day – some important priest or bishop or something like that. There was a big fuss in the village and everyone came out to watch this churchman ride into the place like he was the king or something. I used to be very pious and I'd already been to the church that morning to say my prayers. The church was only a small building with one main room, so I could see the priest laying out a table with all sorts of fancy foods: roast chicken, fresh bread, apples, eggs. I didn't even know what some of the stuff was – I'd never seen it before.”

Will's stomach rumbled and he cursed it silently but Gareth didn't seem to hear the gastric growling. “I sneaked back in when everyone was out welcoming the bishop and shoved some of the food inside my pouch. I didn't take any of the really fancy stuff, just things that I thought wouldn't be missed as much. Bread and eggs and the like. There was someone in the shadows though, one of the local men. He was praying silently at the back of the building and he saw me take the food. He shouted at me and chased me out the door straight into the mob.”

Will could imagine the scene in his mind's eye. It would be nice to think the villagers would have shown the poor boy some compassion but it didn't always work like that, especially when a bishop was around.

“I don't know what they were going to do to me. I tried to tell them I needed the food because my ma was poorly but the churchman was shouting and stuff, like they do, and I was frightened. I managed to break through the crowd – some of them, I'm sure, moved aside to let me pass – and I ran into the forest where I eventually found you lot.”

Will remembered the day. The lad was even skinnier than he was now, having been hiding out in Barnsdale for over a week before the outlaws had come across him.

And now his mother was dead and he was all alone in the world.

They remained seated in silence for a time before Will got to his feet and extended a hand to help Gareth up.

“Come on, let's go back to camp. I know it feels like you don't have much to live for and it's all too easy to lose yourself at the bottom of that ale-skin but you're not alone. We're here for you, all of us. You're our brother, lad, never forget it.”

They made their way back to the rest of the men and Gareth lay on his pallet by the fire, falling asleep almost straight away.

Will sighed and shook his head. The lad's life had been a hard one, that was certain. But so had all of the outlaws – they had to deal with it, and so would young Gareth.

Will wasn't sure the boy had the strength; he just prayed the rest of them didn't go down along with him.

* * *

He'd known it wouldn't be easy when he returned to the priory, but Tuck hadn't expected it'd be so hard to take as it was turning out.

Prior de Monte Martini made sure Tuck was given the worst chores around the place – chores that would normally be done by new, young novices, not a veteran like himself who had just returned a priceless relic to the craven bastard.

Being made to clean out the latrine was the worst, the portly friar thought, as he shovelled a large pile of shit through the opening that would take it outside and down the slope, preventing the waste from building up too much. He grinned in spite of the stench as he remembered Will Scaflock climbing the wall of a similar latrine not so long ago when they'd rescued Robin from his imprisonment in Nottingham.

The smile dropped from his face soon enough though, the smell pervading even the dampened rag he'd tied around his mouth and nose to try and hold the evil vapours at bay and he gagged again, shaking his head, eyes watering.

There was a noise from above and, with a curse, he jumped back just in time as another turd dropped into the rancid pile.

Eventually he'd shifted most of the detritus and gladly left the latrine, wiping sweat from his tonsured brow and tearing the rag from his face irritably as he closed the heavy door behind him to try and block out the worst of the fumes.

If de Monte Martini thought he could break him by giving him the worst chores in the priory he could think again. Tuck was a man of the cloth and his place was in God's service. He'd been forced to leave his rightful place once before... it'd take more than a latrine full of shit to push him out again.

He tore off the filthy leather boots the friars used when they had to clean out the latrine and left them by the door, pulling on his own worn out sandals with a sigh of relief.

He'd earned a rest.

He began to make his way to the priory's larder where he hoped the bottler, Ralph, would share a cup or two of ale and some bread with him. As he walked he smiled and breathed deeply, imagining the smell of the freshly baked loaf that awaited him. It would be a lot nicer than the stench from the mound of faeces he'd just been shovelling.

“Go and tell him to sweep the leaves from the front path now,” Prior de Monte Martini told his dean, Henry of Elmstow, as they stood watching Tuck from the opposite end of the corridor.

“But it's pouring with rain –”

“I know!” The prior smiled. “Blowing a gale too. Good enough for the bastard.” He waved a hand irritably at the old dean who scurried off to give Tuck the bad news.

De Monte Martini hadn't forgotten the trouble Robin Hood had caused him. He still couldn't breathe properly after the wolf's head had smashed his nose all those months ago in Wakefield. And on top of that was the vast sum of money the despicable outlaw and his friends had stolen from the prior when they'd ambushed the cart full of silver that Tuck had been supposed to escort to Lewes not long afterwards.

Yes, he'd make Tuck's life a misery for a while, make him wish he'd never returned to Lewes. Then, when he was close to breaking, de Monte Martini would find some way of using the man. Perhaps he'd relent, and make a show of forgiving the friar.

The fat idiot would be so glad to escape his life of drudgery he'd tell the prior everything he knew about Robin Hood and his men. Then de Monte Martini would pass the information on to Sir Guy of Gisbourne.

The wolf's head had, so far, got away with breaking his nose and stealing his money, but God had been kind enough to deliver one of Hood's best friends into his grasp. He meant to use the good Lord's gift to destroy the outlaws once and for all.

And, if his little ruse to win Tuck's confidence didn't work, there were other ways to make someone divulge information...

For now, though, he'd just sit back and enjoy watching Robert Stafford shovelling shit and sweeping leaves in the pissing rain. There'd be plenty of time to make the friar's life even more painful soon enough.

* * *

“I need a favour.”

Robin and Little John had stopped in the village of Mansfield for some provisions, but also because John had a friend that lived there. They sat in a small dimly-lit dwelling now, the shutter pulled over as protection against the cold night chill as much as against prying eyes, and the householder tossed another log into the fire, causing the small blaze to spit and crackle merrily.

“Anything,” the man replied. “I owe you my life, or at least my hand, friend.”

Three years earlier John and some of the other outlaws had been out hunting and stumbled upon some foresters who had arrested this fellow, Luke, a butcher, who'd been caught poaching. Although the penalties for such a crime weren't as severe as they'd been two-hundred years ago, when transgressors might be sewn into deer-skins and hunted to death by packs of dogs, Luke had still faced a hefty fine or even the loss of his hand.