Rise of the Wolf (19 page)

Groves opened his mouth to say something but the sheriff rounded on him viciously, eyes flaring, enraged like Gisbourne had never seen him before. “Get out of my sight, you arsehole! In fact, get the fuck out of my city. If I ever see you again I'll repeal your pardon and see you on the gibbet. And as for you,” de Faucumberg glared at Sir Guy. “You can go with him. I don't want to see your face in Nottingham until you've destroyed Hood and his gang and returned that silver arrow to me.”

* * *

“So you were a sailor, eh?”

Matt Groves nodded and took a long pull of the cheap ale that had been served to them in Horbury. When the sheriff threw them out of Nottingham, Sir Guy had taken Matt and the rest of his men north to begin their hunt for Robin Hood and his gang anew. The soldiers erected makeshift shelters outside the village while Gisbourne and Groves had come into the small village to rent a room for the night. If the place had been big enough all the men could have paid for their own rooms but the little inn only boasted four guest rooms and all were cramped, or 'cosy' as the landlord described them.

Now, the bounty hunter and his second-in-command sat in the inn's common room by a blazing fire which crackled and spit every so often apparently in protestation at the poor quality damp wood that was being burned. Still, it gave off enough warmth and light to make the room comfortable and the ale that Matt had heated with a poker was also helping him relax after their enforced journey. Gisbourne, a man who always liked to be in total control of himself, was drinking the weaker ale that the landlord gave to his children.

“Aye, I've been a sailor. Twice.” Matt said. “It was my first real job when I was about fourteen, then when I left Hood's gang and the money you'd given me for betraying them ran out I took a berth on a ship sailing from Hull to Bergen, in Norway.” He took another sip, relishing the warm feeling that was spreading quickly outwards from his belly, and grimaced at his captain. “I'm not much of a sailor to be honest. Or much of an outlaw either come to think of it. I hate being stuck in a small space with a load of other men.”

Gisbourne hid a small smile behind his hand, imagining how unpleasant Matt's company would be if one were stuck aboard a ship with him for weeks on end.

“Well, at least now you're free to come and go as you please,” the king's man said but Matt shook his head with a scowl.

“Not really. We'll need to kill that arsehole Hood. I don't want to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life, wondering when he'll come for revenge because I killed his mate.”

Groves had led Robin and his childhood friend, Much, the son of the miller from Wakefield, into a trap set by Gisbourne the previous year. Much had been shot by the Raven then run through by Matt himself and both men knew Hood would never forget that day.

“We'll find him, never fear,” Gisbourne promised. “We just need to put even more pressure on the villagers who give aid to the outlaws. Eventually someone will decide enough is enough and see us as a worse threat than Hood or his men. Once we know the location of their camp we'll get them.”

“I wouldn't be so sure,” Matt replied gloomily. “Lawmen have known where we were hiding in the past but we still always managed to escape. They'll have lookouts posted and, apart from that, they're all hardy fighters. As you know yourself...” His voice trailed off as Gisbourne reached up unconsciously to touch his ruined eye and glared at him.

“Once we find their location,” the Raven promised, “I'll send word back to Nottingham and ask – no, demand – that de Faucumberg sends us enough of his soldiers to make certain we can surround the outlaws' camp and outnumber them more than three to one before we even begin any attack. Trust me – I've learned a few lessons since I've been sparring with Hood. He's no military genius, he's just some peasant that's had a lucky streak.” He sipped the weak ale and wiped his mouth neatly. “Well, his luck won't hold forever. I can feel it; the end of my long chase is coming.”

Matt smiled, strangely pleased by the crazed look that filled his captain's eyes. He knew why Hood and the rest of them had never been captured yet: it was because the people hunting them – Gisbourne and the previous bailiff Adam Gurdon before that – had played it safe. Neither of them had wanted to upset the commoners too much – Sheriff de Faucumberg had specifically warned both lawmen to tread lightly and not cause any unrest among the locals.

When Adam Gurdon had taken the law into his own hands and falsely arrested Hood's sweetheart Matilda there had been disastrous consequences for the bailiff and, ever since, the sheriff had made sure the villagers were mostly left alone.

It was a ridiculous policy, Groves thought. How could they be expected to catch the outlaws while the locals provided them with supplies and pretended not to know their whereabouts when the law turned up looking for answers? No, if Matt had been in charge, Hood would have been strung up a long time ago. Squeeze the villagers so hard that they'd be desperate to do anything that restored peace to their lives, even if that mean turning over the now-legendary wolf's head, Robin Hood.

Up until now Gisbourne's orders from the sheriff, and his own strange code of honour, had meant the people of Wakefield, Hathersage, Penyston, and all the other little towns and villages, had been allowed to live their lives unmolested by the men hunting Hood. But recently there had been a little spark of insanity in Sir Guy's eye and Matt had done his best to fan that spark into a raging balefire.

“The people around here were always happy to help us,” Matt said, watching his leader's face. “They knew you and your men wouldn't harm them. They used to laugh about it. 'The Raven,' they'd say to us, 'not much of a fucking raven that can't use his beak or talons.'”

Gisbourne was no fool and he had an inkling Groves was also somewhat smarter – or at least more devious – than people assumed. He suspected his new second-in-command was goading him, pushing him to take more forceful action in their hunt for the accursed outlaw. But, in truth, Gisbourne needed little goading. Ever since Hood had humiliated him, and sliced off half his face, the Raven had been nursing a growing hatred for the young man which had only grown fiercer in recent weeks.

It was indeed time to use harsher measures to deal with Hood and his men once and for all. If that meant bringing violence to the villages that lay dotted around the forest of Barnsdale, so be it. Burning Patrick Prudhomme's house would just be the beginning.

“How did you end up a sailor then?” Sir Guy asked, changing the subject abruptly. “I thought you were born in Sheffield. That's not exactly a port town.”

Matt sat back, mug resting on his paunch, and stretched his legs out towards the fire, chair creaking in protest as he settled his considerable bulk comfortably.

“Aye, I'm a Sheffield man originally but I left there when I was old enough to grow my first beard. My mother died of fever when I was a lad, so it was just me, my da, and my big brother Philip.”

Matt's voice trailed off and he sat, gazing into the dancing flames for a long time, until Gisbourne thought the man must have fallen asleep. “Philip was more of a father to me than my da,” he eventually muttered, eyes still fixed on the hearth. “He was four years older than me, and my best mate. We used to go fishing together all the time; Philip was a fine fisherman. We'd always come home with something for the pot. It was never good enough for da, though...”

Gisbourne sighed and shifted in his seat, beginning to regret asking to hear this story. It was not going to be a barrel of laughs...

“My father was a carpenter,” Matt went on, oblivious. “It was a decent job and we never had a leaky roof or draughts coming in through holes in the door at night, no – my da was fine and handy. But Philip and I never really felt comfortable in the house.” He looked up at Sir Guy and nodded towards the bounty-hunter's mug. “I admire you for sticking to that weak, watered-down ale, even if it does taste like piss. This stuff,” he hefted his own mug of strong ale ruefully, “is the devil's own brew. It's the source of all evil in this world.”

Ignoring his own platitude, Matt took a long drink, gasping with pleasure as he leaned forward and slammed the empty wooden mug onto the table. “More, inn-keep!”

As the landlord hurried to obey, Groves stuck a poker in the fire to warm before crossing his hands in his lap and continuing his tale. 

“I like a drink, I have to be honest, I do. Nothing better in the world than a few mugs of ale and a nice pair of tits to get your hands on, eh?” He grinned at his captain but Gisbourne only nodded politely, thinking of lots of things he'd enjoy more than either of those.

“Well, my da liked a drink as well, even more than I do. It was all the bastard lived for.” The smile fell from Matt's face and his usual sour expression returned. “You'd think he'd have wanted to spend time with us – his boys. See us growing up into men. But no, the useless sot would take himself straight to the local alehouse as soon as he finished work and had his pay in his purse. Then, when the place shut for the night, or he got himself thrown out, he'd come home and...”

Again his voice trailed off and the inn-keeper hurried over to hand him another mug brimming with ale. He lifted the hot poker from the fire and placed the bright tip into the liquid which hissed and steamed in protest.

“Philip got it the worst, probably because he was bigger, and he had more of a mouth on him than I did. I don't know why my da was always angry when he came home – maybe my mother's death had done something to his head. Or maybe the drink made him like that. Some people get happy when they have a few ales – they sing songs and dance about like idiots. My da always seemed to get pissed off when he had a few though...”

A small smile flickered on his face. “Aye, Philip would give as good as he got, with his words. But it would just make da even angrier, then he'd take off his belt, or use his bare hands. I must have been about six or seven when this was going on, so my brother would have been only ten or eleven. A boy, nothing more than a boy. My da was a big man too. I remember his hands were huge and always covered in hard, flaky skin that would crack and bleed in the winter. Served the bastard right.”

Gisbourne had no idea any of this had happened in his new sergeant's past, but it didn't surprise him in the least. His head nodded and he forced himself to sit up straighter to avoid drifting off into a comfortable sleep as Matt went on.

“I took a beating a few times, aye... got a few black eyes and my ears...” He rubbed the side of his head and Gisbourne noticed for the first time that, underneath Matt's poker-straight dirty-blonde hair, his ears were huge; thick and puffy in a way that looked almost obscene to the king's man who suppressed a shudder and hid his distaste by sipping his weak drink.

“But Philip took the worst of it. He grew big and strong and eventually, one night when my da came home drunk and tried to use his fists, Philip was too fast.”

Matt's eyes lit-up gleefully, remembering that night, re-living it as if it were only yesterday. “Smashed da's nose he did. Blood everywhere!” His voice dropped and he looked down at the floor. “I was terrified,” he admitted. “I thought my da would kill him.” There was another sigh and another long pause as Matt took a drink of the warm ale, letting the bitter liquid seep into his belly as he watched the flames flicker and dance in the hearth before them.

“So what happened?” Gisbourne demanded, interested in spite of himself. “Did your father kill him?”

Matt shrugged. “I don't know. I've never seen Philip since that night.” He looked up and met his captain's eyes. “I ran away out the house and slept under a bush. Didn't come back until the next morning. When I got there my da was out at work as usual and there was no sign of my brother.”

“Did you not ask your father what'd happened?”

“Aye, I did, once, when he'd not been paid and couldn't afford to spend the whole night in the alehouse.” Matt shook his head in consternation. “He said he'd no idea where Philip had gone and I believe he spoke the truth. I think he was so damn drunk that night that whatever happened was wiped from his memory. Wouldn't be the first time that's happened to someone – God's bollocks, it's happened to me more than once.” He grinned, as if proud of himself. “I've no idea whether Philip was killed by my da and dumped in the river or... maybe my big brother ran off same as me, only he never came back in the morning like I did...”

Gisbourne wasn't surprised to see tears in Matt's eyes. The man was quite drunk, which seemed rather ironic to the bounty-hunter given the gist of Matt's story.

“None of this explains how you ended up a sailor,” the king's man said, waving towards the inn-keeper for a refill of his own. Although the ale he drank had been watered-down, it was still just enough to get a man like Gisbourne – who drank  alcohol infrequently – comfortably numb.

Matt's head was nodding as sleep threatened to overtake him but his whole body seemed to jerk awake again at his captain's words and he looked blearily at Sir Guy, as if wondering who the man was.

Eventually, with another deep draught of ale, he continued the story, the landlord watching surreptitiously from behind the bar.

“I've never seen Philip since that night,” he repeated morosely. “For the next few years my da took out his frustrations on me. I'd lie awake in bed dreading him coming home. I don't know... it seems like he beat the shit out of me near enough every night but it can't really have been that often. And he normally used his belt rather than his fists which hurt like hell but at least it didn't break bones. Still have the scars on my legs though; don't expect they'll ever go away.”