Rise of the Wolf (29 page)

The infant was sent crashing to the ground at the side of Gisbourne's feet, howling, and again, Robin was astonished as Marjorie pulled a short wooden practice sword from beneath her skirts and used it to desperately batter the Raven's sword hand away to the side.

It was enough to buy Robin time to finally reach Marjorie and, as he did so he lunged at Gisbourne, trying to skewer his son's would-be murderer, but the king's man dodged to the side and the wolf's head's thrust missed its target.

Knowing he couldn't survive a fight with the burly outlaw Gisbourne reached out and grasped the arm of the young girl who had thwarted his mission. He was much too strong for her, although she tried desperately to break free, even sinking her teeth into the Raven's hand but he simply slapped her, hard across the head and she went limp in his arms.

“Stand down, Hood.”

Robin froze, staring in horror at the crazed, one-eyed madman that held his sister's life in his hands. Matilda came up behind him, shouting on Arthur as he got to his feet unsteadily and, tears streaming down his face, toddled hurriedly towards his mother who lifted him with a sob of her own and cuddled him in protectively.

Gisbourne glared at the despised wolf's head, both of them breathing heavily as they eyed one another with murderous loathing. The king's man had no idea who this girl he held hostage was – if he'd known she was Hood's sister he'd have surely killed her right then. As it was, she'd be a useful bargaining tool that might see him escape from what had become a hopeless situation.

“Drop your sword, Hood, or I kill this little bitch. Her life's in your hands.” He squeezed his arm around Marjorie's throat until she started to turn blue and her attempts to break free stopped as she went limp.

Robin's mind whirled madly as he tried to take control of the situation but he could see no way out.

Suddenly the sound of pounding hooves came towards them and Gisbourne's wild eye widened in disbelief as he saw the newcomers behind Hood, although he never let go of Marjorie who appeared to be unconscious now.

“Robin!” From the street to the side even more voices approached and the outlaw captain saw Little John and Will Scarlet approaching in his peripheral vision.

“You men, drop your weapons.”

Robin heard the voice and recognized it: King Edward II. He'd managed to follow them here after all. But the wolf's head ignored the king – he wasn't about to let the Raven murder his sister.

“Gisbourne!” Sheriff Henry de Faucumberg's furious voice filled the street now as he slid off the back of his mount with practised ease and walked imperiously towards the man he'd been saddled with for more than a year. “You heard your king. Let the girl go and drop your weapon.”

Gisbourne remained silent, as if in shock at the sight of his liege-lord appearing so unexpectedly in this backwater village so far from London.

“I said drop the sword, you lunatic!”

De Faucumberg reached out, a look of disgust on his face, and grabbed Sir Guy's wrist.

Little John and Will hurried over to stand close to Robin, and Matilda turned to hand the frightened Arthur to the giant outlaw. The child went readily enough, despite the stressful situation, recognising the two men and knowing they'd keep him safe.

The king watched everything, bemused, wondering what the hell was going on and why his own bounty hunter was threatening a skinny local girl.

A crowd began to gather, eyes flicking in turn from the bizarre sight of a heavily guarded nobleman they assumed must be their king, here, in
their
village, and the crazed Raven whose face twisted now in a fury as the sheriff's fingers wrapped around his arm.

Gisbourne had never liked the sheriff and now he saw an opportunity to teach the bastard a lesson. He let go of Marjorie who slumped forward onto the road and lay still as her erstwhile captor turned his attention to Sir Henry de Faucumberg.

The sheriff cried out and desperately tried to jump backwards as Gisbourne's long-sword licked out. It was a solid strike but de Faucumberg's chain mail was in good repair and stopped the wicked blade from slicing completely through his ribs although he stumbled as he dodged, and fell over to land on his back on the road, blood oozing from his wound.

“Hold!” King Edward's voice held an unmistakeable note of command that everyone in the crowd recognised. Apart from Gisbourne.

He ignored his master's command and, with a feral growl, pulled his blade back  to deliver a killing blow to the fallen sheriff.

Robin wasn't near enough to block the strike and he wasn't even sure if he wanted to. It was the Sheriff of Nottingham and Yorkshire – the man who'd been trying to hunt him and the rest of the outlaws down like animals these past two years and more.

“No!” De Faucumberg was no coward. He'd fought in battles against the Scots, and for the king against the Contrariants. He'd faced death before, but the sight of the insane Gisbourne's sleek oiled blade coming towards him brought the involuntary, instinctive cry from his lips and he looked up helplessly as his doom approached.

A sharp crack came from behind Robin and there was a collective gasp from the gathered crowd, King Edward II included, as an arrow tore through the air and hit Gisbourne in the shoulder, halting his forward momentum and dropping him to one knee.

All eyes turned to see Matilda, hunting bow in hand which she'd snatched from one of the watching villagers, already hurrying to nock another arrow to its string so she could stop the  scarred bounty hunter that had come to kill her and her infant son.

The missile had pierced his black leather breastplate and Gisbourne knew he was done. Even if he survived this, the king would never trust him again – he'd be out of a job and outcast, while Hood and his family were still alive. Ignoring the arrow, with its beautiful white goose-feather fletchings, that was embedded in his shoulder, he stared at the sheriff who still lay on his back on the ground, watching him fearfully.

Matilda was nervous and dropped her next arrow, losing vital moments as Gisbourne once more moved to skewer the prone sheriff.

Again, though, he was thwarted.

Marjorie had gone limp and apparently passed out when the Raven had begun to choke her, but she'd been been aware of what was happening when he dropped her on the road, and she'd played dead, catching her breath and watching events unfold from hooded eyes.

Now the girl gritted her teeth, furious at this bastard Gisbourne, and, from her position in the road, spun sideways and slammed the point of her wooden sword into the Raven's leg, directly behind his right knee.

It was a good strike, if lacking somewhat in power, and was just enough to make Gisbourne stumble. He reflexively dug the point of his own sword into the ground and used the weapon to steady himself so he didn't fall again, but Robin had spotted his sister as she began to move and guessed what she would do.

The big wolf's head was ready, and attacked just as Gisbourne regained his feet and lunged at the sheriff.

Their swords met with a ringing crack that filled the air and de Faucumberg tried to crawl away on his hands and knees as Hood batted his opponent's blade to the side  then leaned in close to headbutt Gisbourne.

The king's man screamed in rage and despair as his cheekbone broke and he fell back, flailing his arms, trying desperately to keep his footing so he could defend himself but, again, there was a snap and another arrow flew through the air to hammer into Gisbourne's breastplate, just a finger's-width away from the other one.

“Hush, lad, look at your ma go.” Little John grinned at Matilda in appreciation, and cuddled the still-whimpering Arthur against him as the bounty-hunter finally went down.

It was over.

“Stand down! Stand down I say!” King Edward's voice rang out again, filling the air with its authority and everyone stood still, the audience holding their breath and the combatants breathing heavily, as every eye turned to see what their ruler would do.

“No!”

Gisbourne's time was up and he knew it. Ignoring the king's command he pushed himself back to his feet and charged again at the nearest target: Robin.

The Raven came at him, eyes blazing in an insane fury and Robin found himself moving impossibly fast, his own elegant long-sword snaking out to deflect  Gisbourne's desperate thrust then, dancing to the side and reversing his blade faster than the eye could follow, he slammed it into the Raven's spine with sickening force.

Gisbourne, crying out pitifully, was thrown forward to land face-down in the road, sword clattering onto the ground, his body sprawled awkwardly on top of the whimpering sheriff who was by now too weak to even try and move the weight that had landed on top of him.

Gisbourne still wasn't done, though, despite the two arrows in his shoulder and the obvious agony that blazed from his remaining eye. He looked a hellish sight, crazed and blood-caked, teeth gritted as he tried desperately to raise his fist for one final, desperate, hopeless punch at the sheriff.

Robin kicked the bounty-hunter in the side of the head, rolling him off the fallen de Faucumberg and placed the point of his sword on Gisbourne's throat before standing over him to gaze down into his eye.

“You killed my best friend,” the wolf's head growled, before he pressed down, placing his whole considerable weight onto the blade which tore right through Gisbourne's neck and stuck fast in the ground underneath, the dry earth quickly becoming saturated with blood.

Robin let go of the weapon and it stood in the air, like a steel grave marker. “That was for Much.”

Everyone in the village was silent then, even the king. All that could be heard was Arthur's gentle sobs and de Faucumberg's rattling, laboured breath.

“Someone help the sheriff, for God's sake,” the king ordered, eyes casting about for a surgeon or barber. “Come on, where's your headman? Who's in charge here?”

Patrick Prudhomme stepped forward, eyes fearful to be in such close proximity to the king himself, especially after what had just happened.

“That's me, my lord... liege. Pardon my manners. I'll make sure the good sheriff is taken care of.” He looked into the crowd and shouted at some of the bigger men to help him carry de Faucumberg to the nearest house where he could at least rest on a straw mattress instead of the hard-packed earth of the road. As they went he also shouted at one of the locals, a man who owned a horse, to ride for aid to Pontefract, which was the nearest town with a decent surgeon.

The king glanced around at the large crowd that had gathered to watch the afternoon's events. He thought about ordering them back to work then shrugged to himself. Let them enjoy the entertainment. He dismounted and waved at the captain of his guards.

“Take the wolf's heads into custody.”

Will drew his sword and took up a defensive stance, while Little John handed Arthur back to Matilda and hefted his own great quarterstaff.

Robin, his sword still dripping blood, moved to stand beside his two friends and the three outlaws looked at each other grimly. They could hold their own against anyone, but the armoured men approaching them now were the king's own bodyguard – the very best swordsmen in the country, and they outnumbered the outlaws.

“No, please!” Matilda screamed, grabbing hold of Marjorie who made as if to run to her big brother's side. “Robin, don't fight them – there are too many.” She turned to look at the king as Arthur started to sob again, rocking his little head back and forward, hitting it against her collarbone and slapping his ears with his hands in consternation. “Sire...”

“Peace.” The king waved a hand imperiously, irritated now that the excitement was over. “Your husband is an outlaw – an enemy of the crown and he's just killed my own bounty hunter. But, he saved the life of my sheriff so... I'm arresting him, and his friends, for now. We'll see what's to be done with them later.”

Robin sighed heavily and, not wanting his son to watch him die like a dog in the street, put up his hands in surrender and nodded at Will and John to throw down their weapons and submit.

John looked into the king's eyes and felt somewhat reassured by the amused glint he saw there. He dropped his staff into the road with a loud clatter and raised his own great arms.

Will looked furious, his face as red as his nickname and it was obvious he was wondering whether to stand and fight on his own, despite the overwhelming odds. In the end, reason triumphed over rage – his own daughter Beth was in the watching crowd after all – and he tossed his sword down, glaring at the king's guards, as if challenging them to try and best him even unarmed.

“Good,” Edward nodded and clapped his hands in satisfaction before addressing the captain of his guards. “Bind them and have the headman gather the tithing to escort them to Nottingham. Assuming Sir Henry survives he can deal with them on his return home. Now...” he rubbed his stomach and smiled. “I'm hungry. Where's the nearest inn?”

It took almost a week for the sheriff to recover from Gisbourne's near-fatal strike. Six days that Robin, Will and Little John spent locked in a cell in Nottingham castle while de Faucumberg, who had been carried safely there by the men of Wakefield, lay in bed as his wound healed. They were held in a room on the ground floor rather than the dungeon, for which Robin was thankful, given his terrible ordeal there the previous year when Gisbourne had captured him and his spirit had almost been crushed.  There was even a window to the outside, small and barred as it was, which at least let some sunlight and fresh air in and brought a small measure of cheer to the captives.

When the guards brought them sustenance – just watered-down ale and bread, with perhaps an occasional lump of hard cheese to share – the outlaws tried to get them to talk; to tell them what was happening with the king and the sheriff and Wakefield.

Most of the guards remained silent, not from hatred, but because it didn't do to get close to prisoners. They might be hanged the next day after all, or, worse, be set free and use the jailer's words against him somehow as had been known to happen in the past.

Finally, on their sixth morning in captivity the soldier that brought them a grubby wooden platter with two loaves and an ale-skin on it, replied to their questions.

“The king's gone; moved on to Faxfleet from what I hear.” The guard was a short middle-aged man, with a large belly and a red nose, but he had laughter-lines by his eyes and a pleasant demeanour. “One of your friends is in the dungeon though; lad called Matt Groves?”

The outlaws shared a glance and Robin felt his heart race at the despised name but he kept his face calm. Groves wasn't important right now.

“What about the sheriff? Does he live?”

“Aye, he lives, although he's grumpier than I've ever known him. He'll be wanting to see you later on from what I've been told. Reminds me of Sir Guy after you slashed his face apart.” The man grinned as if he was talking about the fine weather lately. “Of course, the sheriff's all right, whereas Sir Guy was a fucking arsehole. Enjoy your lunch boys.”

“Wait,” Robin made to grasp the guard's arm but stopped himself, realising the man might see it as disrespectful. “What about our friends? Have you heard anything about them?”

“You mean your gang?” The guard turned back to look at the wolf's head but simply shrugged. “Not heard a thing I'm afraid, lad.” All of a sudden his eyes narrowed and he glared at Will and John who returned the look with puzzled expressions. The guard's hand fell to his waist, apparently searching for the reassuring presence of his sword-hilt but, of course, he didn't have the weapon with him. Guards didn't carry swords into cells in case the prisoners managed to take it off them and went on a rampage.

“You expecting them to come for you again, like they did the last time you were imprisoned here?” The man shuffled backwards to the door, his expression grim, the pleasant smile gone. “Don't even think about it.” He stepped out through the door and the guard waiting outside slammed it shut and slid the heavy bolts into place. “Don't even think about it you bastards!”

The guards' footsteps faded away along the corridor and Robin looked at his two companions in astonishment before all three burst into laughter at the soldier's sudden change in demeanour.

“They haven't forgotten you coming up the latrine wall to rescue me,” Robin smiled at Will who grimaced, remembering the shit and filth he'd had to climb through to get inside the castle and free his young leader.

John stuffed a piece of bread the size of Robin's fist into his gaping mouth and mumbled as he chewed. “Shame no-one's going to come over the wall and get us out this time.”

Their thoughts turned inevitably to Allan and the mood became maudlin as they remembered him, cold and dead, back in Barnsdale. The meagre meal was finished in silence after that and then the companions settled down on the wooden floor to await the sheriff's visit. Perhaps now that de Faucumberg was back on his feet they'd learn the date of their execution...

“What d'you think's going to happen to us?” Robin asked, eyes downcast, voice low.

John shrugged, stoic and apparently not worried about their situation. “He'll probably hang me for that joke about the men shagging his mum when we first met him,” he said, smiling at the memory. “We
are
notorious outlaws after all – we always knew it might come to this one day. But you, Robin – you saved the sheriff's life. Gisbourne would have killed the bastard if it wasn't for you and Matilda.”

“Aye, and Marjorie too, the girl did well,” Scarlet agreed. “The sheriff owes you and your family.”

“Maybe,” Robin nodded. “But it might not be up to him. The king may have already told him what he was to do with us.”

“No point worrying about it.” John spread his palms wide and sat down to lean against the wall, his long legs drawn up against his chest. “We'll find out soon enough.”

The shadows moved around their little cell as the sun wheeled in the sky overhead and it was close to midday when finally they heard more footsteps approaching, and the heavy bolts on the door were drawn back. It was a different guard who walked into the room this time, a tall man, competent and hard-looking, accompanied by half-a-dozen other soldiers.

“Follow me.” The leader looked at them dispassionately, no trace of any emotion showing in his green eyes. The outlaws shuffled after him, the manacles that had been placed on their hands and feet when they'd first been placed in the cell not allowing them to move faster than a slow walk.

They were led along the corridor, through a great oak-panelled door that looked as if it could withstand a battering ram, and into another corridor, this one sumptuously decorated, with large windows that let in the afternoon sunshine. At last, their legs sore from walking in such an unusual manner, the outlaws stopped outside another sturdy door and the guardsman rapped on it with a gauntleted fist.

It opened from the inside, swinging inwards with just the merest hint of a sound, and Robin and his friends were ushered into the room which was apparently the castle's great hall. Sir Henry de Faucumberg, High Sheriff of Nottingham and Yorkshire sat on a high-backed, exquisitely carved, wooden chair which itself sat on a raised platform with more chairs on either side and a long table in front.

Only the sheriff sat at the table though, his skin pale and wan. He had a comfortable, expensive-looking robe on, which covered any trace of the wound Gisbourne had inflicted, and the heavy gold chain of office was around his neck. To the side, an elderly clerk sat at a desk with paper and pen.

Robin felt a knot of fear in his stomach. It was clear the sheriff had called them here to make their fate official. The sound of the big door closing behind them made him even more uncomfortable but he kept it from showing on his face. He glanced sideways to his comrades and felt a surge of pride at their apparent lack of fear or nervousness; both men gazed unblinkingly at the sheriff who looked back but didn't hold their eyes for long before he spoke.

“I'll make this quick. My wound is healing well enough but it requires constant cleaning and I have many other duties to attend to.” He took a deep breath and lifted the goblet of wine on the table for a sip before continuing.

“You men are wolf's heads. For at least the past two years my men have been attempting to arrest the members of your gang with little success. You have robbed travellers on the road, including high-ranking members of the clergy. You have killed many of my own soldiers. You even joined the Earl of Lancaster in his ill-fated rebellion against the king. And the three of you, from what I understand, are the leaders of your little gang. In short, gentlemen, you are probably the most wanted men in my entire jurisdiction. The king himself sent that bastard Gisbourne here to try and bring you to justice.” He shook his head in disgust and muttered to himself more than anyone else. “That didn't turn out so well, did it?” 

The clerk in the corner stopped writing at that part and the sheriff gave him a small smile before he went on.

“The punishment for just one of those many heinous crimes is death by hanging. Your friend Sir Richard-at-Lee has already received justice in such a fashion.” He gave a small groan and took another pull of his wine, this time almost draining the cup, perhaps hoping the effects of the alcohol would dull the pain from his wound. “What am I to do with you?”

The outlaws watched the sheriff in silence. He had a reputation for being a fair man; they could only hope he would deal with them mercifully now.

“You found the king in a particularly good mood,” the sheriff went on. “He was bored and the little episode in Wakefield – and the chase to find you – pleased him.” He shrugged in exasperation. “The king values physical prowess highly and he enjoyed the... fight with Gisbourne. When he ate lunch in Wakefield he had some of the locals, including the headman, dine with him – they informed him of Gisbourne's recent excesses; burning down houses and whatnot so, although Sir Guy was the king's own man, our highness thought justice had been served by his death. He also remembered the pair of you,” he nodded to Robin and Little John, “from your visit to London. Anyone else would be angered by your deception but again, the king found it all most amusing. So,” he waved a hand, “he told me to deal with you as I saw fit but to be merciful.”

“What does that mean?” Will growled. “A life sentence in your dungeon rather than a public hanging?”

De Faucumberg smiled. “Perhaps,” he began, but Robin cut in before the man could say any more.

“We have your silver arrow.”

The sheriff looked at him, mouth open since he'd been just about to speak again. He closed it, lips pressed together in a thin line. “I remember. How could I forget?”

“We have no need of it,” Robin said. “I'll bring it back to you this very day.” He held up a hand as the sheriff leaned forward in his chair eagerly, the thought of his missing wealth being returned to his near-bare coffers making his eyes sparkle.

“In return I want a pardon.”

De Faucumberg nodded impatiently, but again Robin broke in before the nobleman could speak.

“For
all of us
.”

There was silence then, a silence that seemed to last for a long, long time as the sheriff gazed at the wolf's head and his troublesome companions.

Robin glanced sidelong at Will, noting the man's aggressive stance. Even without a weapon the volatile Scarlet was ready to attack the blue-liveried soldiers.

Little John's face was unreadable.

Even the sheriff's guards looked unsure how this would play out; Robin could see more than one of them fidgeting nervously and he picked one to go for first should De Faucumberg order an attack.

“Fine. You win.” The sheriff glared at his clerk. “Write pardons for these two,” he waved a hand irritably at Will and John. “Scaflock and Little, I believe, yes? Yes.” The clerk quickly but neatly filled in two small pieces of parchment then took them to de Faucumberg who lifted his own pen and signed the bottom of each.

“Here,” he growled, holding them out towards the outlaws.

“What about Robin?” Will demanded, not moving towards the proffered document. “Where's his pardon? He saved your life.”

“Your loyalty is, truly, a pleasure to see,” de Faucumberg smiled, apparently sincerely. “But I have other business to attend to with him so... if you would so kind as to take these bloody pardons from me and stop asking questions you can be on your way back to your homes.”

John and Will looked at Robin and he grinned encouragingly. “Go on, what are you waiting for? This is what we've wanted – freedom! Don't worry about me, I'll see you soon. We still have his silver arrow don't we?”

The two outlaws walked forward and, still unsure of themselves, gingerly took the parchments from the sheriff, who nodded and ordered his guards to show them out.

“Our weapons?” Will wondered.

“Yes, yes, return their weapons to them,” the sheriff grunted in exasperation. “Now get out will you? I wanted to get this over with quickly.”

They followed the guard from the room, the door was closed over again, and Robin felt another pang of fear. Yes, de Faucumberg had proved himself to be – mostly – an honourable man, who'd tried to rein in the increasingly violent tendencies of the Raven, but Robin hadn't forgotten the time when the sheriff had double-crossed them. Only the timely intervention of Sir Richard-at-Lee and the Earl of Lancaster's soldiers had saved Robin and his friends that day, or the sheriff would have cut them down like animals.

So, although Sir Henry de Faucumberg appeared to be rather more honourable than many of his noble peers, the wolf's head didn't quite believe he could trust the man unquestioningly. After all, capturing Robin Hood and hanging him was always what the sheriff had wanted – it was the perfect way to send a message to any other would-be thieves and outlaws.

De Faucumberg beckoned him forward, to stand right in front of the table, and Robin wished he had his sword with him.

“You've led my men and I – not to mention Gisbourne – a merry dance these past couple of years, Hood. You appear to lead a charmed life or, perhaps I do you a disservice and you're really as skilled a leader as you are an archer. I suspect the truth lies somewhere in the middle and that makes you a formidable enemy.”