Rise of the Wolf (13 page)

Matilda was right – life would find a use for her eventually.

The journey south took Robin and Little John the next three days but they enjoyed the ride despite its ultimate purpose. Spring was in full bloom so the fields were green with barley and rye, the grass and foliage that blanketed the countryside was thick and lush and the sun cast a warm light on the countryside meaning the night they camped out was fairly comfortable.

“Aye, England truly is a green and beautiful land,” Robin said, watching the unhurried passage of a large black and orange butterfly with a contented smile.

“It is,” John agreed. “When it's not pissing down or some ugly forester's trying to smash your teeth into the back of your skull.”

“I've never been this far south before. In fact, before I was outlawed I don't think I'd ever even left Yorkshire.”

John nodded. It wasn't uncommon for people to spend their whole lives within their own county – there wasn't any need for a peasant or yeoman to travel to a city and, even if they wanted to, the price of an inn was enough to discourage most.

“I've been here before,” Little John said, looking around thoughtfully. “At least, I seem to have a memory of some of the landmarks we've passed today. My family travelled to the capital once, when I was very young, on a pilgrimage. My grandmother was ill, and the priest in St Michael's suggested we come away down to pray for her in St Paul's Cathedral. I don't remember much about it to be honest.”

Robin was impressed that his friend had travelled so far in his life. “Did your prayers work? Did your grandmother recover from her illness?”

“No. She died a week later.” The giant shook his head ruefully then his smile returned. “Waste of bloody time that pilgrimage.”

It was unusual for John to mention his family, even now that they'd been friends for a couple of years, and Robin wanted to take the opportunity to find out something of the big man's past.

“Did you never travel with Amber and wee John?”

“Nah. My wife was a maid for one of the merchants in Hathersage – still is, in fact. She couldn't just take weeks off to travel to no good purpose.” John's eyes stared fixedly on the road ahead as thoughts of his wife and son came to him. He sighed heavily. “I have more than enough money now that I could travel anywhere I like. Even Rome, or one of those other famous old places the minstrels sing about. I bet John would have a great time climbing those big monuments – you remember the ones Allan goes on about? The colloso... collosem or something I think one's called.” His hand disappeared inside the grey cassock and touched the cheap amulet he wore on a thong around his neck that had been a gift from Amber long ago. “I have all the money to do what I want with my family and no chance to do it.”

“You will,” Robin assured him, meeting the giant's eyes. “I promise you. Somehow we'll win a pardon and you can take your family to Rome.”

John grinned and looked back at the road ahead. “Ach, my wife would be just as happy travelling to Sheffield to visit her sister. Speaking of which, how's young Marjorie? Not so young now I suppose, she'll be nearly a woman eh?”

“Aye,” Robin said, thinking fondly of his younger sibling. “She's well enough, although she'll never be as sturdy as my ma, or even Matilda. I expect my da will be looking for a husband for her soon enough – hopefully whoever it is looks after her. They'd fucking better or else...”

The pair fell into a somewhat maudlin silence as their thoughts lingered on loved ones far away and their mounts carried them towards the city. The light began to fail before they could get there though, so, as the sun slowly set and the road became treacherous for their mounts, they chose to spend the night in another small town, not that far from the capital's walls.

Before entering the place they found a small stream and, using their eating knives, shaved one another's heads in the same way Friar Tuck did, with the crown bald and the back, front and sides left as they were.

“You look like a right fucking oaf,” John giggled, squinting at his friend in the dim light while running a hand over his own scalp and looking down at the bloodstained fingers ruefully.

Robin laughed. “Aye, I bet I do,” he agreed, trying vainly to see his reflection in the stream before cupping some of the chill waters and using it to wash the crimson from the pores of his own head. “But at least we look more like friars now. Wait, you're not finished, you need to shave that beard of yours.”

“My beard? I've been growing this for years.”

Robin grinned. “Can't be a friar with a beard.”

When they were finished even their friends wouldn't have recognised them straight away and, in Little John's case, maybe not at all. 

They made their way into the town and, since they had coin enough to pay for decent lodgings were able to spend a comfortable evening in the local inn's common room. There was plenty of meat and ale to fill their bellies, but the overnight delay irritated the pair as they wanted to reach the king as soon as possible.

What they would do when they came face to face with England's monarch they weren't quite sure yet. Would they even make it in to see the king, or would they be recognised as outlaws and cut down before they even made it past the first guardsmen? Even if they did convince the guards that they were clergymen would they be able to fool the king too? Or would they be found out as soon as they opened their uneducated mouths?

Only time would tell but Robin was confident, as always. All would be well...

They were up before dawn the next day, even before the cockerel – which the landlord had promised was a perfect time-keeper – had crowed to signal the sun's ascent into the eastern sky. After bothering the inn-keep for some bread and cheese to break their fast they set off at a brisk pace, only stopping to hide their bulky weapons in a thick clump of bushes a little way off the road – they wanted to look like clergymen, not soldiers after all. Then, remounting they pushed their horses hard and reached the capital city's gates while it was still morning.

London.

Both outlaws had the hoods drawn up on the grey cloaks that they wore in what they hoped was the Franciscan style and, along with the pectoral crosses they'd taken from Hubert and Walter to hang around their necks, they looked like nothing more than normal – if extremely well-built – friars to the gate guards who watched them pass without a word of challenge.

“We should visit the Franciscan... church or priory or whatever the hell they call it,” Little John murmured as they walked their mounts through the unbelievably crowded streets of London. “It's what real friars would do.”

Robin snorted making his horse glare back at him with a bulging eye. “We're not real friars, even if we have spent so many months living with Tuck,” he said, pulling on his palfrey's bridle. “We wouldn't know how to act like them and the Franciscans would see through our disguise in a moment. No, our best bet is to head straight for the royal palace and seek an audience with the king. We can deliver our letter and be on our way again before the day's out.”

Little John smiled although Robin could see the stress of their situation written all over the giant's newly-shaven face. “Aye, straight back to Nottingham to free Allan without a hitch. Piece of piss.”

The companions had never seen so many people gathered in one place: foreign merchants dressed in brightly coloured clothes chattered to one another in strange languages; carts laden with eggs and cheese rattled past; workers drove noisy sheep along the road to market and street vendors hailed them continually, with cries of “Hot peascods,” and “Sheep's feet, come an' get 'em.” Their mouths watered at the sight of the laden trays but they were in too much of a hurry to stop.

They had no idea of the layout of the city or how to get to Westminster Palace but there were enough people to ask directions, and, once they grew nearer, the imposing bulk of the place stood high above any other building in the vicinity.

Although their initial plan had been to find someone to read Sir Henry de Faucumberg's letter to the king that they'd taken from Brother Walter, in the end Robin had decided against it. Showing the parchment to anyone else would surely draw unwanted attention to them – no real friar or monk would ask a layman to read a letter for them. Especially a letter about the capture of a member of the notorious Robin Hood's band.

Robin felt sure that he'd picked up the gist of the document himself anyway, and he wasn't about to place their lives in danger just to fill in the few Latin blanks that he couldn't make sense of.

“So tell me, then.” John grumbled as they neared the royal palace. “What you think the letter says. You've been keeping it a secret this whole time.”

Robin looked around in wonder at the enormous stone walls and imposing architecture that surrounded them and threw his big mate a happy grin, his teeth flashing from beneath the cassock's hood.

“I believe the sheriff is telling the king that he's captured Allan, but, if I have it right, he's also complaining about Sir Guy of Gisbourne's treatment of the people of Yorkshire.”

John whistled quietly. He hadn't expected de Faucumberg to speak out against the king's own bounty hunter. “I have to admit,” he said, “the sheriff comes across as a decent man. Even if he did double-cross us the other winter. And Gisbourne has been even more of prick lately... What d'you think the king'll do?”

Robin shrugged. “What do I know about the workings of royalty? Hopefully the king will listen to his sheriff and call Gisbourne back here before sending him overseas or to Scotland or, well, anywhere other than Barnsdale.”

“I take it you have a plan, or at least some idea of what to say once we're in front of the king?” John asked, raising a bushy eyebrow questioningly. “What about the letter's broken seal? How will you explain that?”

Robin shrugged again and laughed. They'd reached the palace and nerves grasped his insides but he pushed them aside, knowing he had to appear outwardly calm or the king's guardsmen would see through their outrageous disguise. “Don't worry, of course I have a plan – don't I always?”

“Aye, always,” John agreed, lowering his voice as they approached the gates. “Most of the time they're crazy and suicidal though. I hope this time you have something a bit better because if the king doesn't believe our story, there'll be no escape.”

The huge, cold, grey walls loomed high above them, staggering them with their sheer size and Robin felt a lump of bile forming in his throat. He coughed to try and clear it but it stuck, lodged there and he wished they'd stopped at a tavern for a few ales before coming here. At least if he was drunk he wouldn't feel so frightened.

But it was too late for that. They'd reached the great wooden gates to the palace and there was no going back.

The guard captain looked them up and down, taking in their great size and the grey habits they wore with a look of interest on his face before nodding respectfully.

“State your business with the king, brother friars.”

Robin took a deep breath, not even noticing the uncomfortable phlegm had disappeared as an icy calm came over him and he began to tell the guard their tale.

* * *

“Bugger this, and bugger the prior.”

Tuck smiled at Brother Osferth, his companion for the morning – again – and nodded sad agreement, glad that the fellow was feeling more talkative today. “Aye, God forgive me, but I'm beginning to wish I'd never come back here.” He lifted another armful of logs which Osferth was splitting with an old axe and stacked them with the rest of the pile they'd been working on since dawn.

While the rest of the monks had been making their way to the early morning service of Lauds Prior de Monte Martini's dean, Henry, had waved Tuck and Osferth aside and told them the prior needed firewood chopped as there were important visitors coming from London that day.  It was obviously nonsense; Tuck had seen the vast stores of fuel that were piled up by the priory's east wall, so even if there
were
visitors they didn't need any more wood for the hearth in the chapter-house but he hadn't bothered arguing with the dean.

Osferth, on the other hand, complained loudly and angrily about missing his morning devotions. The dean simply shrugged and told them it was the prior's orders and they'd better get on with it if they didn't want to miss their dinner as well.

A sharp crack filled the air as the younger monk hefted the axe again before wiping the sheen of sweat from his brow and sitting down on the pile of uncut logs with a heavy, angry sigh.

Osferth was in his mid-twenties, although he looked much younger, and had an open, pleasant face which fitted his personality perfectly. The other monks in Lewes Priory liked the man, but he had a problem taking orders and it had led de Monte Martini to mark him down as a troublemaker.

“God works in mysterious ways,” he replied to Tuck, who grunted non-committally. “We all heard about you joining those outlaws up north. Never thought I'd see you here again but... God must have led you back here for a purpose.”

Tuck allowed himself to slump down on the grass beside Osferth, a hacking cough bursting from his lips as he did so. “What purpose?” he growled. “To cut logs? To shovel filth from the latrines? To listen to the babbling of novices?” He coughed again, bending over until his head was almost on the ground before wiping his mouth and glaring up at his companion. “To eat even less than I did as a wolf's head in the snow shrouded forests of Yorkshire? Is that my purpose?” He shook his tonsured head irritably. “God be praised then, I've found my true calling.”