Rise of the Wolf (2 page)

“There they are – get 'em!”

“Shit.” Robin turned at the shout and spotted at least half-a-dozen foresters coming towards them. John, Will and Gareth had followed him at a run to his house where he collected his weapons and said a hasty goodbye to his family, hand lingering tenderly on Arthur's chubby cheek, savouring the moment. Now, the four outlaws headed for the trees on the outskirts of the village with the lawmen hurtling along behind, shouting for them to stop in the name of the king.

“Split up,” Robin ordered. “It'll make it harder for them to follow us. We'll meet back at the camp.”

Without a word the others broke left and right, the foresters cursing at their backs, wondering which of them to follow. For some reason all of them chose to stay on Robin's trail; he could hear them barging through the undergrowth although, to be fair, they seemed to be better woodsmen than most of the oafs that came hunting the wolf's head.

The young man was supremely fit, but his strength lay mostly in his upper body – the shoulders and arms that he used to deadly effect with his longbow. There was a good chance at least one of his pursuers would be a faster runner than him and he never liked the idea of an enemy at his back.

He had his bow in his hand and, fiddling inside the pouch at his waist, produced the string which he placed over the end of the weapon. Hoping he had enough time, he came to a stop and stepped across the bow, using his limbs to bend the massive weapon enough to slip the other end of the string into place.

His suspicions had been correct; one of the chasing foresters was right behind him, indeed, would have been close enough to plunge the tip of his sword into Robin's back before much longer if the outlaw had continued on his previous course.

With practised ease he pulled an arrow from his belt, nocked it to the string, took aim, and let fly. The missile took the unfortunate lawman hard in the chest, throwing him backwards and killing him instantly.

Without waiting to find out how the other foresters took the death of their companion, Robin turned and, moving off at a different angle this time, plunged back into the forest as silently as possible.

It seemed to work. There were cries of dismay and anger from behind but, mercifully, they didn't seem to be coming any closer. After a while the wolf's head relaxed and slowed his pace, breathing heavily as the effects of the chase and his unwanted but necessary kill wore off. 

He hoped the others had managed to evade capture. He also wondered where Sir Guy of Gisbourne was; there had been no sign of the Raven amongst the lawmen that had come after them.

As he pushed through the branches dark thoughts assailed him but, before he realised it, he had reached the outlaws' camp. Home, for now.

He hadn't noticed the soft footsteps that shadowed his own. Nor did he see, a little while later, the watching forester that headed back the way he'd just come after tracking the wolf's head.

Back, towards Wakefield, and Gisbourne.

* * *

“So you're leaving us after all, Tuck, and going back to that bastard prior?”

The portly friar nodded his tonsured head, a look of regret on his normally cheery face. “Aye, Allan,” he replied. “Once the weather gets a bit better I'll make the journey down to Lewes and return the holy relic to de Martini.”

Allan-a-Dale spat on the hard grass of their camp which was flattened by weeks of heavy footprints and little sunlight. The outlaws all knew about Prior John de Monte Martini, the man who had threatened to sell Robin's wife Matilda to a brothel he owned in Nottingham and been rewarded for his threat with a broken nose from the brawny young archer.

Robin had been forced to join the outlaw gang to evade the prior's justice after that. Then Tuck had come along, escorting a wagon full of de Martini's money which the outlaws had stolen, although Tuck had soundly beaten Adam Bell, the leader of the outlaws at that time.

Rather than returning to the prior empty handed, knowing his fate would be an unpleasant one, the friar had remained in Barnsdale with the outlaws.

That had all happened two years earlier though, and, when Tuck realised Robin had come into possession of a hugely expensive relic stolen years earlier from Prior de Martini the big friar knew he held the key to a pardon in his hand. Freedom again. A normal life, without the threat of death around every tree stump or innocently babbling stream.

“The relic isn't ours though,” Allan said, poking a stick into the camp-fire, making the flames leap and dance a little higher in the cool spring air. “It might have belonged to de Martini once, a long time ago, but it seems like you can't just take it back to him. Robin borrowed it in good faith from Father de Nottingham in Brandesburton. He promised to return it to him months ago.”

Tuck remained silent, knowing the minstrel's words were true. Their young leader had asked to borrow the relic from St Mary's in order to revive Tuck after he'd been shot by Sir Guy of Gisbourne and almost drowned. Father de Nottingham had let the wolf's head take the holy relic, fully expecting it would be returned at some point.

It had done its job – Tuck had come to after days in an unnatural deep sleep, but when he saw it, the friar realised it wasn't the thumb of St Peter as the priest at St Mary's thought. It was actually strands of hair from Christ's own beard, held securely in an exquisitely decorated little box only Tuck – who had learned the secret years ago when he had bought the thing in a French village – had been able to unlock.

“It was good of the priest to let Robin take it,” Tuck agreed. “But it belongs to Prior de Martini, no matter what anyone thinks of the man.” He shrugged. “I'll go to Brandesburton and explain things. Leave Father de Nottingham some money to pay for his troubles...”

His voice trailed off and his bright blue eyes remained fixed on the fire in front of them. In truth, Tuck couldn't stand the wealthy de Martini who abused his position to gather wealth in most un-Christian ways. But the friar was getting on  – he was forty-five years old as far as he knew – and although it was spring now, the thought of spending another winter in the greenwood, which wasn't anything like as green once the frost and snow descended upon it, wasn't a pleasant one.

He loved these outlaws like brothers, or even sons in some cases, but he knew he couldn't live out the remainder of his days here. He had found his true purpose in life: to spread the word of God. It was a task he couldn't perform very well while stuck in a forest in Yorkshire.

“Yes,” he sighed, “I'll take the relic back to Prior de Martini. The thing's worth an obscene amount of gold so he'll be overjoyed to have it in his hands at last. Although he's a nasty piece of work, I'm sure he'll appreciate what I've done for him and the church will take me back into its service.” His eyes flicked up and he gazed at Allan earnestly. “You know I really did enjoy life as a friar, as boring as it probably seems to you.”

Allan waved the suggestion away. “Men come in different shapes and sizes. We all have our own tastes and ideas of what's good and bad. If you enjoyed that life, who am I to judge you? And, if you want to go back to that...” He returned the clergyman's gaze, “I'll be sad to see you go, my friend. But you have to follow the path you believe God's laid out for you. So, for what it's worth” – he lifted his gittern from the ground beside him and strummed a bright chord with a smile – “you have my blessing.”

“On your feet you lot!”

It was a sign of their recent easy life – their lack of immediate danger and the resulting relaxed attitude to posting lookouts – that three men had managed to burst into the outlaws' camp without anyone raising the alarm.

Now, Gareth, Will and Little John moved hurriedly amongst them, extorting the  men who had remained here with Tuck and Allan to prepare for a possible attack.

“Gisbourne's on his feet again,” John told them. “He came to Wakefield with his men looking for us.”

“Lucky for you lot he didn't start by looking here first,” Will groused. “No guards watching for approaching danger? You've all gone soft. Gisbourne would have torn through you like an arrow through dog shit.”

“We're not the only ones that've gone soft,” Tuck retorted, taking in Will's breathless state with a raised eyebrow. “You can hardly get the words out you're so winded after the short run. Didn't you say you'd only come from Wakefield? Or were you visiting a friend in some other village? In Scotland perhaps?”

“Fuck off, Tuck,” Scarlet grinned, watching as the men strapped on weapons and hastily took up positions in the trees overhead, longbows strung and ready to shoot. “Just get off your fat arse and help us move the camp before that whoreson Gisbourne appears. He's not going to be in a good mood after Robin took half his face off at Dalton.”

“Like he was ever in a good mood,” Allan shouted over his shoulder while gathering his own arrows and stringing his longbow.

“Aye, well, trust me,” Scarlet replied. “If you thought he was dangerous before, he'll be even worse now. Being mutilated tends to make people angry! Just ask John – the midwife pulled him out of his ma face-first and the giant's never forgiven her for giving him a face like a mastiff doing a shit.”

“Where is Robin anyway?” Tuck wondered as the men laughed at Will's insult, concern creasing his face as he used his quarterstaff to lever himself onto his feet.

Little John waved a meaty hand. “He'll be along soon – we had a head start on the foresters. Robin's safe enough.” He grimaced at the smirking Will. “Any more of that shit though, Scarlet, and you'll be the one with the deformed face.”

Their leader did appear just then, his glance taking in the rest of the men, seeing his two grinning lieutenants and the now-sober Gareth,  before he nodded in relief. “Everyone's here then, good.”

“Were you followed?” Stephen, the former Hospitaller sergeant-at-arms asked, sword already drawn as he watched the trees for signs of movement.

Robin sat down, helping himself to a mug and filling it from the barrel beside the campfire.

“Nah. One of them was like a hare, would have easily overtaken me, but I took him down. The rest gave up after that.”

Will let out a small sigh and dropped onto the log beside his young leader, gesturing for Robin to hand him one of the other empty mugs so he could wet his own throat.

John made his way to his pallet and lay down, stretching his great frame and yawning like some beast of the forest. “We should really move camp,” he muttered, gazing up at the branches overhead.

Will drained his mug and wiped his mouth with a grubby sleeve before replying. “We'll be fine. Gisbourne wasn't even with those men, they were just foresters. And, if one of them's been taken out they'll have no stomach to come looking for us. They're not stupid.”

Robin mulled it over for a while. He glanced up, noting the position of the sun which was mostly hidden by dark grey clouds and knew it would be dark in a couple of hours anyway. “Will's right, we can leave and find a new base in the morning.” The men gave soft cheers – moving camp was always a time-consuming, irritating chore and they were glad to put it off, even for just a few hours – but Robin held up a hand, gazing around at them. “Be on guard though, just in case.”

* * *

When the forester that had followed Robin to the outlaw camp returned to Wakefield he went directly to Sir Guy. The Raven was indeed in the village, as were two dozen of his men – not foresters but proper, hard soldiers.

“Did Hood see you?”

“No, my lord,” the man shook his head, keeping his eyes down respectfully under the bounty hunter's sharp look. “I watched them for a bit, but they were relaxed. Must have thought they'd got away all right.”

“They would have too, if it wasn't for your tracking skills. Well done man. Here.” Gisbourne tossed a coin to the forester who caught it with a surprised grin.

“I couldn't just let the wolf's head get away, not after he shot my friend –”

“Indeed.” Gisbourne turned away, the conversation at an end, and waved his men in close. “This man will lead us to the outlaws' camp. Once we're close, I will have the foresters fire a volley of arrows and then you men will rush them. You all carry shields and wear good armour. Some of you may die – these criminals we go to find are skilled longbowmen, after all.  Attack swiftly and without mercy, though, and the element of surprise should carry us through.” He spun around again, gesturing for the forester to lead the way.

They moved as silently as possible but, as they approached the camp the outlaws could be heard laughing and talking amongst themselves and Gisbourne smiled. The forester was right – the wolf's heads thought they were safe and it would be their downfall. At last.

The bounty hunter halted his men before they got too close, fearing sentries would spot their approach. He signalled to the five foresters that remained in his company and watched as they readied their longbows. The sun was setting by now and the outlaws' camp-fire cast a tell-tale orange glow that gave the archers something to aim for. He looked around at his swordsmen, making sure they were ready to move, then, exhaling a deep breath, swung his hand down in an arc.

The snapping of bowstrings being released seemed to echo all around the forest before there were thuds and sounds of panic from the camp-site ahead.