Rise of the Wolf (4 page)

He'd been crowned king at the age of twenty-three, when his father, also Edward, had died but his reign had not been a particularly good one, or so the people of England seemed to think. The Welsh appeared to have an affection for him, even now, but his English subjects didn't think much of his rule. He had tried his best but the simple fact was, he wasn't really interested in the things a good king was supposed to do.

He enjoyed the company of commoners, for example, which scandalized most of his nobles. He'd even learned how to shoe a horse along with thatching, hedging and ditching – all necessary tasks, to be sure, but not ones to be performed by a king! Even his much-admired physique was mostly thanks to his love of rowing and swimming which were, again, seen as scandalous pursuits for a royal to be so involved in.

The truth was, Edward enjoyed such rustic pastimes so much because he felt lonely at court. Lonely and bored. It wasn't easy being the king and something as simple and good as repairing the thatch on a cottage brought him a great sense of peace.

“Sire..?”

The petitioner before him, a minor noble from Harrogate, looked embarrassed to be, essentially, upbraiding the king for his inattentiveness but it was clear Edward was lost in his own little world and wasn't paying the slightest notice to what was being said.

“Yes, yes, carry on, my lord, I'm listening,” the monarch lied, waving a hand and forcing himself to sit straighter as the man blabbered on about some bridges needing repairing. Why the king had to know about it Edward had no idea, but he watched the  petitioner and tried to look as if he was listening.

It had been good to put down the Contrariants, especially his cousin the Earl of Lancaster. For years they had been trying to undermine him – they had even killed his first and greatest friend, Piers Gaveston. He sighed again, remembering the handsome, charming young man who he had loved yet everyone else seemed to hate. But he had avenged Piers's death when he'd crushed that rebellion and executed the ring-leaders and, now, at last, the country was at peace.

The petitioner finished speaking and bowed his head before looking expectantly at the king for his decision.

“You make a good case, sir,” Edward nodded, a genuine smile creasing his bearded face, glad that the man was finished at last. “I agree with the points you make.” He waved a hand towards his treasurer, Walter de Stapledon, Bishop of Exeter. “Your Grace, please see to it. We can't have bridges collapsing, can we? The country would grind to a halt.”

The nobleman smiled, pleased to have been granted the funding he'd travelled to Knaresborough to ask for. It had been a stressful morning for him too – the king almost never saw anyone these days, leaving much of the country's administration up to his new favourite, Sir Hugh Despenser the younger. But Despenser, the king's chamberlain, was away in Wales at that time and so the monarch had decided he must see to business himself that day.

It was a mistake Edward rectified now, as he stood up and smiled around the room. “I think that's enough for one morning. I will retire to my chambers.”

Without another word, and followed by the disapproving stares of his subjects, he strode out of the throne room. The morning was gone, but it was still warm outside; he'd spend the rest of the day with his friends on one of his boats on the River Nidd which ran right past the castle. Sir Hugh would join him soon enough – then
he
could take care of the country.

* * *

Henry de Faucumberg, High Sheriff of Nottingham and Yorkshire, was angry. That morning, one of Robin Hood's men had strutted into the city as if he owned the place and offered his services as a bounty hunter.

As far as the sheriff knew, the outlaw had never been pardoned so was still a fugitive. De Faucumberg had ordered his men to arrest the man as soon as he'd realised who the hell he was. Then Sir Guy of Gisbourne had intervened.

The black-armoured, one-eyed, king's man had stepped in to stop the sheriff's guards from throwing the outlaw into the dungeon. Although de Faucumberg was the most powerful man in Nottingham he knew King Edward II expected him to work together with Gisbourne to capture or kill Robin Hood and his men.

It was an uneasy relationship that had only got worse since Sir Guy's defeat – and mutilation – by Hood.

Before, the king's man had been arrogant and unfriendly but he'd obviously enjoyed life. He enjoyed sparring with the sheriff's guards, defeating every one and brutally injuring some of them in the process. His legendary skill with a blade had been the one thing he was most proud of. He rose early in the morning to practice, and spent any spare moments going through combinations and tactics in his head, revelling in the knowledge he was the best swordsman in England.

Then Robin Hood had beaten him. And not only that, the wolf's head had torn off half of his face, leaving him with only one eye and a scar that made him look like a monster.

It had been a fair fight and Gisbourne was winning easily enough – toying with his younger foe – but sometimes the best man doesn't win and, when Sir Guy had slipped on a muddy patch of grass Hood had made the most of his opportunity.

The king's bounty hunter – who had been sent north specifically to deal with the problem of Robin Hood and his outlaw gang – had been left incapacitated for months, his lust for life lessening with every day he was forced to spend confined to a sick bed, while his hatred for Hood grew like a cancer inside him.

The damned wolf's head hadn't just bested Gisbourne though, his men had killed the bounty hunter's second-in-command, Nicholas Barnwell. The man had been the closest thing Gisbourne had to a friend – they'd worked together bringing outlaws to justice for the best part of three years and had shared much together in that time. Barnwell's death was a real blow to the Raven.

Although Gisbourne excelled at leading men in combat, he wasn't much good at dealing with the normal day-to-day problems and personal issues that affected any group of men, being aloof, arrogant and clearly considering himself superior to everyone beneath him. Barnwell had been a good go-between, with his earthy, sometimes sadistic humour endearing him to the men who saw him as “one of them”, with no airs or graces.

Gisbourne knew he had to find someone to take Barnwell's place but none of the men in his current command were suitable, being mostly loyal to the sheriff, Henry de Faucumberg, or the king himself.

After his recent failed assault on Hood's camp Gisbourne also knew he'd need to try a different tactic to catch the outlaws. Perhaps find someone who knew where the wolf's head's camp-sites were. Someone who knew the secret, hidden trails in the forests. Someone, in short, that knew exactly where and how Hood's men lived.

It seemed divine providence then, when Matt Groves appeared in the city, looking for employment.

Sir Guy didn't know much about the man, having only met him on a couple of occasions – breaking his nose the first time – but he knew Groves had spent a long time as part of Hood's gang and, more importantly, hated the young wolf's head with a vengeance. His knowledge of Barnsdale Forest would be invaluable too, so, when the sheriff had wanted to hang the man, Gisbourne had stepped in to save him, offering the grizzled outlaw the position as his own sergeant.

“You remind me of my previous second-in-command,” Sir Guy had told Groves as de Faucumberg shook his head in disgust and waved them from his great hall. “He was a sour-faced, weather-beaten bastard too.”

A rare smile cracked the corners of Matt's lips at that.
“You won't regret this, my lord,” he vowed. “I know Yorkshire like the back of my hand. Hood never listened to me when I offered advice – thought he knew best, or asked Little John or Scarlet what to do instead. Arseholes, the lot of them. You can count on me, though, I won't let you down, in God's name, I swear it. You took a chance on me when no-one else would and I mean to repay you for it.”

Gisbourne didn't like the fawning tone in the man's voice or the angry, darting eyes when he spoke but it was done now, the outlaw was his new sergeant. Whether he was useful or not remained to be seen. If he helped him kill Robin Hood – perfect. If he turned out to be a liability though, he would kill Groves himself without a second thought.

Praise be to God, it was good to be back in the hunt.

* * *

Robin sat nursing a mug of ale, gazing into the fire wistfully, thinking back to the day they had first met the now departed Friar Tuck. So much had changed since then and yet here he was, still a wolf's head hiding from the law.

Allan came over to sit with his brooding young leader. “I don't know for sure,” he began thoughtfully, “but I think Matt Groves was riding with Gisbourne in Pontefract when I was there earlier today.”

Robin's sat up, his eyes flaring and the minstrel held up a hand defensively, almost feeling the force or his friend's hatred like a physical blow. “I'm not sure if it was him or not! I was in a hurry to get the hell out of there before they found me so I didn't take the time to look too closely. It looked a lot like him though.”

Without realising it, Robin's hand fell to the sword hilt at his waist and he snorted furiously. “It wouldn't surprise me if he's taken up with that bastard Gisbourne. Bitter old prick would love nothing more than seeing me hanged.”

Allan nodded, then his eyes widened in surprise as Robin continued.

“This is the best news I've heard for a while. Aye, I hope it
was
Matt you saw,” he said, in response to the look on Allan's face. “It means I don't have to go looking for  the bastard –  he'll come straight to me, and then...”

April came, filling the trees with thick green leaves and the rains slowed, allowing the ground in the forest to dry out and become less treacherous. The sounds of nature reawakening after the chill of winter filled the air, as insects began to build their nests in dark, hidden places and many of the animals and birds that populated the undergrowth gave birth to their little ones.

“Here, listen to this!” Young Gareth hurried into camp one afternoon, red-faced and puffing, apparently from excitement more than exertion. He was followed by the Hospitaller sergeant, Stephen, who looked bored and irritated by his younger companion. The unlikely pair had been visiting the village of Tretone that morning to collect supplies.

“What's up?” Little John wondered, raising an eyebrow at Stephen who gave a disgusted wave and sauntered to the big cooking pot over the camp-fire to help himself to some of the thin soup bubbling away inside as the other outlaws who were around came across to hear Gareth's news.

“The sheriff's holding a tournament in a couple of weeks.”

Silence greeted his pronouncement and the Hospitaller snorted with laughter as he spooned some of the hot food into his mouth.

“So what?” Allan-a-Dale asked. “What's that got to do with us?”

“There's to be games and prizes and stuff,” Gareth replied, smiling as he moved over next to Stephen and lifted a bowl of his own which he filled with the – mostly cabbage – soup.

“Are you pissed again, boy?” Will Scarlet demanded.

“No, I'm not!” Gareth retorted, the watery broth dribbling down his chin as he glared at Will indignantly. “There's going to be an archery competition, and the prize is a silver arrow. An arrow made from solid silver.”

There were gasps and whistles of appreciation from the men as the value of such a prize sunk in.

“That's impressive,” Robin agreed, shrugging his enormous shoulders. “But why are you so excited? None of us are going to be winning the arrow.”

“Why not?” Gareth replied, looking at Robin as he continued to eat. “You could win.” He glanced over at John. “Or you.” His eyes moved around the outlaws who listened to him in bemused silence. “You're all deadly with a longbow, you could beat anyone in England. Christ knows you spend enough time practising.”

“You seem to be forgetting one thing,” Scarlet growled. “We're fucking outlaws. The moment any one of us sets foot in Nottingham we'll be arrested and hanged. Particularly me or Robin, since some of the guards know what we look like and, as for him...” he pointed at Little John. “He stands out a bit, don't you think? Being the size of a fucking bear and all.”

John laughed merrily and clapped Gareth good-naturedly on the back. “Ah, the innocence – and stupidity – of youth.”

“Aye,” Stephen muttered. “And if you think that silver arrow is going to be anything more than a normal wooden shaft with some paint on it, you're more than stupid.”

The men began to drift off, back to whatever tasks they'd been involved in before the Hospitaller and his teenage companion had returned, laughing at the preposterousness of Gareth's suggestion.

Allan-a-Dale remained by the fire with Robin, strumming his gittern and thoughtfully eyeing the longbow which lay on the grass by his side.

“Maybe it's not such a bad idea of the lad's after all.”

“Eh?” Allan was only half-listening, absorbed in the music as he was. “What idea?”

“The arrow,” Robin muttered, plucking strands of grass from between his legs thoughtfully. “I'd have a good chance of winning the competition
if
I could hide my identity. Think how much money that arrow would be worth.” He looked up, eyes shining. “Enough to buy us all pardons. All of us. We'd be free at last.”

Allan nodded slowly. “That's true. But you'd be recognised as soon as the first guard saw you. Every lawman in the north of England knows what you look like by now and, you know yourself – this whole thing is probably a trap specifically to catch you.”

Robin sighed. “Aye, you're right, of course. But...” he tossed the little strands of grass he'd been fiddling with into the air angrily. “I promised you men pardons but I don't see how I can ever fulfil the vow.”

He fell into silence again for a time, but was soon startled from his reverie by the sound of another of the outlaws crashing through the undergrowth into camp. This time it was Arthur, the powerfully-built lad from Bichill who waved the rest of the men across, his near-toothless mouth split in a cheery grin.

“Keep it down,” Allan hissed angrily. “You should know better than to come charging through the trees like a hunted boar.”

Arthur waved a hand irritably and addressed Robin who had come over, brown eyes gleaming with interest.

“Two Franciscan friars on the road to Nottingham. No guards.”

“If they've no guards they probably have nothing worth stealing,” Little John grumbled.

Robin nodded, but the men murmured together, knowing travellers were often the best way to find out news from the wider country, even if they carried light purses hardly worth removing.

“Let's invite them to dinner,” Robin laughed, strapping on his sword-belt and collecting his great war-bow. “It would be rude to let them pass without offering our hospitality.”

He waved to Arthur to lead the way and followed the lad. “Make sure there's enough stew for our visitors,” the young leader smiled to Edmond who nodded and waved farewell.

It didn't take long to find the two friars. Although it was a dry day, there had been rain in the night and it made the remnants of the previous autumn's leaves slick,  slowing the travellers' progress to the city.

“Hail, and well met,” Robin stepped into the road from behind a twisted old birch tree, raising a hand in greeting and smiling at the two friars who stopped in surprise, their faces registering fear and dismay at the sudden appearance of the large young warrior who greeted them.

“God give you good day, my child,” the elder of the two churchmen replied, his eyes searching the undergrowth for signs of anyone else. His shoulders slumped as he caught sight of Arthur, hand gripping the hilt of the sword he wore. Clearly these men were outlaws. “We have nothing of value –”

“We're no robbers,” Robin broke in, shaking his head and moving forward to stand before the friars, his gaze steady, searching for any signs that the men might try and offer some resistance. “I'm Robin Hood,” he went on, noting the older friar's involuntary step backwards as he recognized the name of the infamous wolf's head. “This is our forest.”

The friar opened his mouth to deny Robin's claim to the land but the young outlaw carried on, giving him no chance to speak. “We merely wanted to invite you to dinner. You look like you could do with some food.”

The younger friar – no more than fourteen summers at the most – certainly appeared to be in need of a hot meal, being almost skeletally thin. He either hadn't heard of Robin Hood or simply found the idea of food so appealing that it was worth a trip into the lair of a gang of violent criminals. He glanced up at his older man, his eyes hopeful.

“I think not, although we thank you
in the name of Christ
for your generous offer. We are simply in too much of a hurry to be sidetracked.”

The man made to move along the path, gesturing for his young companion to follow.

“I insist.”

Robin placed himself directly in front of them and the smile fell from his lips, hand dropping to his sword hilt as Arthur stepped into the road behind the churchmen.

“Our camp is this way. Follow me.”

“No, wolf's head!” The friar stood his ground, even stamping his foot like a petulant child. “We won't follow –”

“What food do you have?”

Robin turned at the younger friar's voice, meeting his hopeful gaze with a reassuring smile.

“We have cabbage soup, and our cook has just started making a big pot of venison stew,” he replied, watching the skinny youngster's mouth working as saliva formed unbidden and the grumble of his empty stomach seemed to echo back from the sparse spring foliage around them.

“Hubert, get back here, boy. The abbot shall hear of this, you little bastard!”

The novice ignored his superior, following Robin as he set off along the trail again, and Arthur shoved the older friar in the back with a curt, “Move it, priest, or I'll knock you out and carry you.”

It didn't take them long to reach the outlaw's camp and they were all glad to return, the grousing friar barely stopping for breath the whole way as he lambasted Robin and Arthur, promising them eternal torture and a place in hell beside the great tyrants of history.

“Two bowls of stew for our guests,” Robin shouted over to Edmond. “Make the lad's bowl a big one.” He grinned at the young page and bade him sit, which the lad did gladly, looking around at the other outlaws with interest rather than the fear his elder displayed so obviously.

“Be at ease.” Robin laughed at the friar as Edmond handed him a steaming bowl and a crust of black bread. “We mean you no harm. You've surely heard of me and the rest of these men; you know we don't murder for pleasure. Be at ease,” he repeated. “In the morning you can be on your way with a full belly and a tale to tell your brother friars.”

The sun moved into the west and slowly fell, leaving only the crackling camp-fire to cast light on the outlaws and their two guests. The younger of the pair, Hubert, proved to be a friendly boy, who told them they were travelling to Nottingham for the tournament the sheriff was holding in a few weeks. Their abbot had sent them north to the city from Gloucester Greyfriars to bring the word of God to the great number of people who would surely be congregating there to watch or take part in the tourney.

The promise of a near-priceless silver arrow as a prize had sent ripples of excitement all around the north of England and Custos William de Bromley wanted to make sure the masses gathering in Nottingham would dip into their pockets and contribute alms for his church's upkeep.

The older friar, Brother Walter, refused to engage in conversation with the men.  He shrank back from any of the outlaws if they came near to him, as if they were flea-ridden dogs or lepers and shouted at Hubert to hold his peace as the youngster spoke with Robin and the men, imparting what news he had from Gloucester and beyond. Still, Walter managed to eat two bowls of Edmond's venison stew and more than his share of ale before falling asleep with his back against a tree stump close to the fire.

“He says it's a sin to eat too much,” Hubert grumbled, glaring over at his sleeping superior. “But whenever we stop at an inn he eats enough for a horse while only paying for a small bowl of porridge for me.” He sighed. “I suppose this is God's way of teaching me humility before I become a proper friar.”

Will Scarlet shook his head in annoyance. “Well, lad, you can eat as much as you like tonight. Eat until you throw up if you want.”

Hubert smiled and took the piece of bread Will held out to him with a grateful nod.

When they awoke in the morning, Brother Walter was glad to see most of the outlaws were absent – gone off hunting or fishing or, more likely he thought with a scowl,
robbing
people.

Robin came over to him and helped him up. Young Hubert was already awake and mopping up the last of a bowl of porridge with another piece of bread.

“Here,” the outlaw captain handed some of the steaming breakfast to the sour-faced friar. “Eat up, and you can be off.”

“As easy as that?” Walter shovelled the porridge into his mouth with his hand, licking oats from his fingers as he looked warily at Robin, as if he expected the big man to skewer him any second.

“As easy as that,” Robin agreed, watching the friar devour the meal with a twinkle in his eye. “Once you pay us for your bed and board.”

Walter spat in fury and a mouthful of food dribbled down his chin.

“Whatever's in your purse will be enough to cover your debt I'm sure.”

Before the outraged Franciscan could react the outlaw stepped in close and, with a knife that seemed to appear in his hand from thin air, sliced through the leather thong that held his purse onto his belt.

Moving back to sit by the fire Robin tossed the purse up and down, feeling the weight with a satisfied nod. “Yes, this'll be just enough I'm sure. I trust you enjoyed your stay here in Barnsdale?”

“You heathen scum –”

Little John and Allan-a-Dale appeared behind the protesting friar and shepherded him from the camp, back towards the main road, screaming for God to rain hell-fire and brimstone on the wolf's head.

Robin, grinning wickedly, clasped young Hubert by the shoulder and pressed the coin purse into the youngster's hand surreptitiously. “There you go lad, keep that hidden under your cassock and buy yourself a pie whenever you get a chance. You best be off or Brother Walter will tell the Custos on you.”

Laughing, the skinny page made the sign of the cross, blessing the wolf's head, before stuffing the remainder of a loaf into his mouth and running into the trees after his elder.

* * *

“You really think this will work?” Gisbourne placed his black crossbow on the table beside him and rubbed irritably at his ruined eye-socket. Most people would have worn an eye-patch but the bounty hunter understood the power of appearances and liked to seem as menacing as possible. The sight of his weeping scar was enough to frighten most people.