Rise of the Wolf (11 page)

But the outlaws had chased off the lawmen and set Luke free. He'd returned to his home here in Mansfield, promising to repay his debt if ever John had need of him.

“We'd like you to go into the city and find out what's happening to one of our friends – a minstrel, name of Allan-a-Dale. I'm not asking you to place yourself in any danger or to make yourself conspicuous; just go to the inn Allan was staying at – The Ship it's called – and see if you can learn anything about his fate.”

Luke nodded and placed mugs of ale before John and Robin with a small, nervous smile. “Of course,” he agreed. “I'll ride out in the morning. With God's blessing I'll return in the evening with good news. In the meantime, drink, make yourselves at home and tell me about your adventures in the greenwood.”

Luke was as good as his word. He owned an old, but still healthy, horse which he normally used to pull his cart, and so he made the journey to Nottingham and back much quicker than he could have done on foot.

“How did you get on?” John demanded as Luke came into the little house. The giant and his young leader had remained cooped up inside all day, for fear of being spotted and reported by some local busy-body. Apart from the danger to themselves, they had no desire to bring trouble to the butcher.

“Good and bad news,” Luke reported, pouring himself a drink and draining it with a gasp before splashing some tepid water from a big bowl onto his face to wash the grime and sweat of the road off. “Your mate's being held in the castle dungeon right enough. The sheriff plans to hang him.”

John groaned but Robin spread his hands and glared at the butcher. “What's the good news then?” he demanded.

“Ah, well, the sheriff has sent messengers to London to see the king. He wants the king's permission to hang your friend, you see, so... I don't know if you plan on trying to rescue him or what but you have at least some time to try it before the friars return with the king's seal.”

“Wait,” Robin sat down opposite Luke. “Why would de Faucumberg need the king's permission to hang an outlaw?”

“I don't know, but that's the rumour.” Luke shrugged.

“What about these friars,” John demanded. “What've they got to do with it?”

“The sheriff asked the two Franciscan friars that informed on your mate if they'd go to the king and they agreed. They must be on the road right now.”

John gripped Robin's shoulder. “That old bastard Walter. It wasn't enough for him to see Allan captured, he's going to make sure he hangs too.”

Luke stood and helped himself to another mug of his ale with a sigh of exhaustion. “Well, lads. You can bed down here again –”

“No.” Robin moved to gather his things, gesturing John do the same. “We're leaving right now. If De Faucumberg needs the king's seal to hang Allan he'll want it as soon as possible, so he'll have provided the Franciscans with horses. We don't have time to waste – we need to catch them and find out what's going on. Something doesn't add up.”

A short time later Luke waved as the grim outlaws kicked their mounts into a canter along the road to Nottingham, the sound startlingly loud in the dark, silent village, like Gabriel's hounds or the Wild Hunt.

“I wouldn't want to be those friars when that pair catch up to them,” the butcher muttered before he made his way back inside, shoved the bolt across the door and, with a shiver, tossed another log onto the hearth.

* * *

“I think we should get moving,” Hubert said to Brother Walter as they dressed in the sparsely furnished but comfortable enough room they'd paid for in the inn.

The older friar waved a hand irritably at the young novice and took his time as he pulled on his worn old sandals, cursing the calluses and corns that beset him and wondering why clergymen were never allowed to wear socks. His head was pounding from the ale he'd consumed the previous evening and all he wanted to do was go back to sleep for a while.

No chance of that with Hubert around though.

“The sheriff said we should take his news to the king as fast as possible. If he finds out we've been tarrying he'll be angry.”

Again Walter waved a hand in annoyance, this time spitting an oath at the youngster as well. It was true, Sir Henry de Faucumberg had asked the Franciscans to travel to London with all haste, even giving them a purse filled with silver coins to pay for their expenses. When Brother Walter had told the sheriff of their run-in with Robin Hood de Faucumberg had given the friar even more money to hire a couple of mercenaries to deter any other would-be robbers on the road.

Walter had every intention of travelling to the king but he saw nothing wrong in enjoying the sheriff's money on the way there. He also saw no point in racing to London as if the devil himself were after them. The outlaw – Allan-a-Dale – wasn't going anywhere.

The Franciscan made himself ready and muttered for Hubert to follow him as he left the room. The mercenaries he'd hired in Nottingham were waiting outside their door, bright and eager to earn their fee.

“We've already broken our fast,” one of them said. “If you would like to get on your way?”

“In the name of Christ, you're as bad as this one,” Walter groused, gesturing at Hubert who flinched back from his elder's ire. “All right, let's get some bread and cheese – and ale! – from the inn-keep and we'll be on our way.”

The road was quiet when they eventually set out on the next leg of their journey to the capital, a hard, driving rain beating down on them as they huddled into their cassocks and prayed for clear skies. Walter knew Hubert was right about the sheriff being angry if they didn't get to their destination in good time so he kicked his heels into his mount and his three companions followed suit to keep up.

They moved at a stead pace through the sheeting downpour, but not too fast for fear of one of their horses slipping on the wet road. A lame nag was no use to anyone.

“God's bollocks, priest,” one of the mercenaries, Philip, shouted over the sound of the drumming rain after they'd been riding for a while. “Can you and your boy not ask the Lord to stop the rain for a bit? I'm soaked to the skin – we'll all end up with a fever if we don't get dried out soon.”

Brother Walter didn't like the blasphemous nature of the man's words but he agreed with the sentiment. Besides, it would be a good excuse to stop at the next village where he could warm himself by the fire of the local inn with an ale or three.

As he opened his mouth to tell the mercenary as much Hubert shouted happily. “It's stopping. Look, there's even a rainbow on the horizon!”

“Praise be to God,” Walter muttered through gritted teeth, glancing up and seeing the clouds beginning to thin as the sun tried to force its way between their heavy grey bulk.

“Indeed!” Hubert agreed, oblivious to his elder's annoyance at missing out on another chance to spend Sheriff de Faucumberg's silver. “God sends us clear skies for our journey.”

“That ain't the only thing he's sending us,” Philip growled, turning to look back along the road behind them. “Look. Riders. And they don't look like they're filled with the love of Christ.”

Robin knew Brother Walter had recognized them as they approached, from the fearful look on the man's lined face. The friar reined in his horse, knowing they couldn't escape, and shouted at the two mercenaries to draw their weapons and defend them.

Swiftly, the two hired soldiers did so, hauling their mounts around to face the oncoming threat and setting themselves to ward off whatever attack was imminent. However, the sight of the heavily built men riding towards them, particularly Little John with his quarterstaff that seemed almost as long as a knight's lance, made the mercenaries baulk.

“Who the fuck are these two?” Philip demanded of the friars. “You never said anyone was after you. Look at the size of that one, he's a fucking giant.”

His companion, Edwin, a stocky, ginger-haired man of advancing years nodded silent agreement but the pair were honourable men and they'd been paid good coin to do a job. They raised their swords, ready to defend the churchmen as the two riders approached, grim-faced, the threat of violence emanating from them like a wave.

“Hold!” Philip commanded as the two men came closer, their intent obvious as they glared murderously at Brother Walter.

Robin and Little John hauled on their mounts' reins, bringing the beasts to a halt just outside the reach of the mercenaries' blades and the bigger of the two glared at them from beneath his shaggy brown fringe.

“You know who I am?” he demanded, simply.

There was only one giant in the north of England that everyone told tales of.

Philip swallowed, eyeing the enormous staff that was aimed in his direction. “John Little?”

“That's him,” Robin growled. “We have no quarrel with you two. But we want a word with that one there,” he pointed his blade at Brother Walter. “So you can either stand and be cut down or you can fuck off. Either way, that friar is ours.”

For a moment there was silence as Philip tried to take in what was happening. He'd been paid to protect the friars, and, although the two men facing him were notorious killers, the mercenary took pride in his job.

He glanced across at his companion, Edwin, and knew there would be no help from there. The man was gazing, awestruck, at the celebrated outlaws.

Philip looked at the younger Franciscan and shook his head sorrowfully. In truth, the mercenary cared little for the older clergyman, but Hubert seemed a decent enough young lad.

“Have no fear for the novice,” Robin said, watching the mercenary's eyes and guessing what was going through the man's head. “We only want to speak to the older friar – Hubert can be on his way if he wants.” The wolf's head jerked his head back along the road, indicating the direction the page and the mercenaries should go if they wanted to stay alive. “Move it, the three of you.” His demeanour was calm, but young Hubert was shocked at the violent intent that flared in the big outlaw's eyes.

When Robin Hood had 'invited' them to dinner not so long ago the wolf's head had been good-natured and affable, even in the face of Brother Walter's incessant grousing. But now, Hood wore a mask of barely controlled rage.

“You go,” Hubert nodded to the mercenaries who, although surprised at the command from the youngster, gladly followed his order and, with respectful nods towards the legendary outlaws, kicked their steeds along the road to Nottingham without a backward glance. 

“I'll stay here with Brother Walter,” Hubert finished in a small voice, feeling inside his pouch for the weight of the purse Robin had given him at their last meeting.   That purse told him Hood wasn't a wicked man, and the young novice felt a duty to help his elder, even if the friar was a moaning, selfish old sot.

As the mercenaries rode off Little John walked his horse forward and poked his great oaken quarterstaff into Walter's midriff, sending the friar flying, to land with a heavy thump in the grass by the side of the road, where he lay cursing and crying like a smacked child.

The rain came back on then, mirroring the tears that sprang from Brother Walter's eyes as he lay, face-down on the ground, expecting a sword thrust to send him into God's arms in heaven at any moment.

Robin dismounted and moved to grasp the prone churchman by the scruff of the neck, hauling him up and glaring into his moist eyes.

Hubert moved to try and protect his elder but Little John was beside him and held him back, shaking his head slightly.

“You gave our mate Allan over to the sheriff,” Robin said, his voice rising as he shoved Walter backwards until his shoulders hammered painfully against the trunk of a young silver birch. “You've condemned him to die! And for what?”

“Your friend is a wolf's head,” the friar managed to reply, his anger enough to overcome his fear. “As are you, and your pet bear.” He spat in John's direction. “May God strike the pair of you down where you stand.”

“Where are you going?” Robin demanded, ignoring the jibe. “What did the sheriff ask you to do?”

“I don't know what you mean,” Walter replied. “We're returning to Gloucester Greyfriars. When you stole our money we couldn't afford to stay in the city.” He fixed Robin with an indignant glare but the young outlaw was in no mood for the friar's lies.

“I asked you where you were going,” Robin asked again, cuffing the friar hard across the face and allowing the dazed man to sag to the ground, mewling like an injured cat. “And until you tell us, what remains of your miserable life is going to be filled with pain.”

“Stop it!” Hubert pulled away from Little John and brushed past Robin to kneel beside the elder Franciscan, placing a hand reassuringly on Walter's arm. “We're going to the king,” the youngster admitted, looking up at the outlaws as the rain streamed down from his thick brown hair into his wide eyes. “The sheriff gave us a letter to take to him.”

“What letter?” Little John rumbled, his voice seeming like distant thunder to the sodden young page. “What does it say?”

Hubert shrugged. “The sheriff seeks the king's permission to hang your friend. We're to return with the royal seal.”

Robin looked across at his huge friend, not quite believing the youngster's story. Why would de Faucumberg need to ask Edward's permission to hang a common outlaw? It made no sense – as the king's representative in Nottingham and Yorkshire the sheriff had power enough to mete out justice to the likes of Allan-a-Dale.

There had to be more to this letter than Hubert knew.

“Give it to me,” Robin demanded, gesturing to Walter. “The letter – give it to me now.”

For a moment the friar lay on the soaking grass, a murderous look on his face as he gazed up at the wolf's head, then, nostrils flaring, he grasped Hubert's arm and hauled himself to his feet before reaching inside his cassock.

“Come and get it if you want it.”

Before either of the outlaws could react, Brother Walter had pulled out not the letter but a small knife, and pressed it against his novice's throat. “If either of you come any closer I'll kill this little sinner,” the friar grated, holding Hubert's arm tightly.

John spat in disgust onto the ground. “Call yourself a man of God? You make me sick. That lad has more of the Holy Spirit in his little finger than you have in your black soul, damn you.”

Walter was backing away towards his horse which had wandered from the road and found a thick patch of grass where it stood grazing, uninterested in what was going on behind it.

“You'll not get away from us,” Robin vowed. “Give us the letter now or we'll take it from your dead fingers.”

Walter shook his head. “I may not be the fastest rider on God's green Earth, but the next village isn't far. I'll be able to make it there before you – the people won't allow two criminals to murder a clergyman.”

Robin cursed inwardly. The little prick was right.  Yet he knew there was something important in that letter; something that might be the key to more than just helping Allan avoid the gallows.

There was little he or John could do it seemed. Young Hubert's face betrayed confusion and fear, as his companion's blade pressed against his windpipe and they slowly but surely inched their way back towards the big palfrey that still ignored their approach.

Allan was their friend, yes, but they wouldn't endanger the innocent young novice; Robin wasn't sure if the fear-crazed friar would actually harm Hubert but he couldn't take a chance with the boy's life.

The rain, already heavy, suddenly became a hammering torrent and Robin pulled his hood up to keep the deluge from running into his eyes as it bounced off the ground, forming deep brown puddles in a matter of moments.

The Franciscan finally reached his mount and, with a victorious smile, lifted his left hand to take the horse's bridle. As he did so, the palfrey stepped to the side nervously and Walter's foot slipped in the mud.

Robin and John watched in disbelief as a thin red line appeared on young Hubert's neck, stretching from one side to the other. The older friar regained his balance and, not even realising what he'd done, shouted triumphantly and dragged himself atop the palfrey, leaving go of the young boy as he did so.

He kicked his heels into the horse and galloped away with a laugh while the torrential rain turned the wound in Hubert's neck into a grotesque river of crimson and the youngster slumped face first into the grass.

“He's already dead!” Robin screamed as his shocked friend made to help the novice. “Leave him – we need to stop the friar before he reaches Chesterfield.”

They pulled themselves gracelessly into their saddles – neither was much of a rider – and, with a last, helpless look at the pitiful, soaking corpse in the grass beside them, chased after Brother Walter.

* * *

The cell was cold, despite the time of year, and the floor was sodden with piss and God knew what other filth. The sunlight didn't reach down here under Nottingham Castle but the rats and insects did and, after his beating from Gisbourne, Allan felt like he was going crazy. The smell wasn't an issue any more; he'd grown used to that, which was surprising given how hellish it was. No, the disgusting little sounds of rats and mice and – he shuddered – whatever else was down there with him,
crawling
about the walls and floors of his cell tortured him. He was a minstrel – he wanted to hear the open chords of a gittern, the perfectly tuned strings of a fine citole or the sweet singing voice of a young girl singing.

“Let me out you bastards!”

Allan groaned and dropped his head into his knees at the crude, echoing shout from one of his fellow prisoners somewhere along the gloomy corridor. If it wasn't dark slithering and scratchings it was half-mad rants from the other poor unfortunates that were imprisoned in the inky blackness alongside him. And now, the ever-present fear that Gibourne might return for round two...

Ah, well, at least he had a cell to himself. Praise God for small mercies.

“In here, dickhead.”

The iron-strapped door swung open and Allan shrank back against the wall, drawing his legs up against him, eyes burning in the light of the torch that was carried by one of the sheriff's guardsmen.

An old, old man was pushed into the cramped room, falling to his knees with a whimper, and the door was slammed shut again, the lock clicking into place with the finality of a tomb.

The minstrel said nothing, just stared, unseeing, at the dark spot where his new cell-mate had been deposited. The man breathed heavily but there wasn't enough light to make him out and Allan sighed.

“Stay away from me.”

The newcomer shrieked and Allan could hear him scrabbling away on his hands and feet into the far corner.

“Please, don't hurt me.”

“Relax, old one. We're all in the same boat down here. Our time will come soon enough.”

The harsh breathing softened eventually and Allan, starved for company asked the man's name.

“Edward,” came the reply and Allan smiled in the darkness.

“Pleased to meet you, Edward. Shame it wasn't in happier circumstances.”

The old man grunted self-pityingly. “You?”

“Allan-a-Dale.”

There was another grunt, although this one was more like laughter. “Funny name.” The prisoner must have realised laughing at someone down here wasn't a good idea, as he hastily added, “No offence, mind.”

“None taken,” Allan replied in a voice that suggested the exact opposite. “You might have heard the name before?”

There was silence from the opposite end of the cell and Allan sighed. Everyone knew Robin Hood and Little John and Will Scarlet, thanks in part to Allan's own songs. Yet few knew of the minstrel himself.

“What you down here for?” the old man wondered, his voice growing stronger, more confident as time passed and his companion hadn't stove his head in. “They caught me stealing a sheep. Bloody shepherd claimed he saw me having relations with it but he's a damn liar. I just wanted to eat the woolly bastard, not hump it.”

Allan sat in silence for a long while wondering what in the name of Christ the guards had put in his cell with him then, eventually, he shrugged. He was bored, and an audience was an audience.

“I'm a minstrel,” he began, his voice rising and seeming to fill the little cell with its power.