The Wolf and the Raven Read online

  THE WOLF AND THE RAVEN

  Book 2 in The Forest Lord series

  By Steven A. McKay

  Kindle version

  Copyright 2014 Steven A. McKay

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part, without written permission from the author.

  Also by Steven A. McKay – Wolf's Head

  For my son, Riley, and my daughter Lianna, with all of my love.

  Acknowledgements

  There are too many people I owe a debt of gratitude to, like all the lovely folk on social media who have shared my stuff, all the people who left nice reviews for Wolfs Head on Amazon and elsewhere, and those who helped me promote that book with interviews and blogs etc.

  I'd also like to thank my beta-readers Bill Moore, Emma-Jayne Saanen, Pat Goodspeed, Neal Aplin, Luke Burns-McGruther, Paul Bennett, Robin Carter and Niall Hamilton, with special gratitude to Chris Verwijmeren for technical advice on the archery side of things.

  To Gordon Doherty, author of the Legionary series of novels, for all his help and advice, particularly when I was working on Wolf's Head and Glyn Iliffe, author of The Adventures of Odysseus series for providing a glowing strapline for that first book – you guys rock.

  To the people at Amazon, particularly the KDP team (you know who you are!), for making it possible to successfully publish my work when it had proved otherwise impossible and for continuing to support me on my self-publishing journey: thank you so much!

  Thanks to my wife Yvonne, my children Freya, Riley and Lianna and my mum, Bernadette, who all support and inspire me every day in different ways.

  And finally – thank you to YOU, the readers who bought Wolf's Head and now The Wolf and The Raven. Your support means everything, believe me.

  Apologies if I've forgotten anyone – let me know and I'll list you in the next book!

  CHAPTER ONE

  England, 16th March 1322

  “Loose!” Robin roared, hoping the soldiers he commanded would be able to hear him over the deafening sounds of the battle.

  His men, fifteen in total, released their arrows, along with dozens of other longbow men in Thomas Plantaganet, the Earl of Lancaster’s, army.

  The missiles formed an ominous dark mass in the sky before hammering down, into the forces of King Edward II, led by Sir Andrew Harclay, 1 Earl of Carlisle. The king’s men desperately tried to shelter behind their shields, but many of them were killed or horribly injured. Their commanders screamed at those still standing to hold firm, as the rebel forces advanced upon them.

  Robin shuddered at the screams of dying men, the thunder of horse’s hooves and the looks of terror on the faces of the men being driven on by the mounted nobles behind them. He had never seen anything as horrifying as a full scale battle before, and the hellish atmosphere shocked him.

  He forced himself to concentrate, fitting another arrow to his bow and bellowing again. “Keep shooting; we have to allow the Earl's men a chance to reach the ford or we're finished here!”

  It was true. The Earl of Lancaster’s forces were badly outnumbered by the king’s men. Sir Andrew had also managed to reach the river before the rebels which had allowed him to take full advantage of the surrounding terrain.

  Positioning his knights and men-at-arms on the opposite end of the bridge, almost in a spear-wall, Harclay knew the Earl would have to try and break through as more of the king's forces were travelling to attack his rear.

  It was becoming more and more obvious to Robin the battle was going badly. Lancaster was trying to lead his men, many of them wearing his livery of argent and azure, to a ford further upriver while his lieutenants, the Earl of Hereford, Humphrey de Bohun, and Roger de Clifford of Skipton, tried to storm the bridge. The king's longbow men were taking a terrible toll on Lancaster's men as they tried to reach the ford though, while Hereford had been killed by a pikeman hiding underneath the bridge. When Clifford was also wounded, the assault on the bridge threatened to grind to a complete standstill.

  Robin and his men had been living as outlaws in the forests of Barnsdale a few months earlier, when the Earl of Lancaster had promised them all pardons if they joined his rebellion. It had been a simple choice for the outlaws. They could either continue to live like animals in the freezing winter, hunted by the foresters and sheriff’s soldiers, or join a rebellion against the king whose unjust laws had driven them into the greenwood in the first place.

  The weeks leading up to this point had been hectic for the outlaws, as the earl sent word summoning them to join his army besieging the royal stronghold of Tickhill Castle. From there the army had moved on to Burton-on Trent, setting fire to the town when they found out the king was coming after them, before heading for Dunstanburgh on the coast. They'd only managed a few miles before Harclay's men had caught up with them here at Boroughbridge.

  For most of Robin's men this wasn't the first time they'd been a part of such a large, organized force; many of them had stood against the Scots or, like Will Scarlet, served as mercenaries, fighting in battles all across the world. In the past, though, they had joined up because they were either summoned to do so by their local lord, or were being well paid to fight for an employer.

  Here, Robin and his friends felt like they were fighting for a cause that directly impacted on their own personal lives. Although none of them knew much about the wider political picture in England, they knew they wanted their freedom and the Earl of Lancaster promised that. It was widely known that the earl stood up for the lower classes living in his manors, while King Edward II spent more time playing around in boats or at sports than he did taking care of his people.

  It was a simplistic view of the situation – black and white with no shades of grey in-between, although Robin had been outraged when the earl had set fire to Burton, and rumours of a treaty with the Scots had spread amongst the army, enraging many of them.

  They were here now though, the rumours were nothing more than hearsay and no-one would convince Robin they weren't fighting for a just cause. They weren't just struggling to survive here, as they had been doing as outlaws for months or even years in some cases. They were trying to do some good, for themselves, yes, but also for their fellow countrymen.

  As Robin had said to them all in a short, but rousing speech just before battle commenced: “We have a chance to actually change things here, lads. A chance to bring justice and some form of equality to the country. A chance to show the king we're not going to take his shit any more!”

  The men had cheered their young leader's words and gone into the fight with pride and determination burning in their eyes,.

  Robin grimaced as he let fly another arrow, knowing it would find its lethal mark in the closely packed line of soldiers on the other side of the river. A moment later he had pulled another from the ground at his feet and nocked it to his bowstring, the rock-hard shoulder muscles rolling as he drew back the great warbow and took aim again.

  The earl had seemed confident in the success of the rebellion when Robin had agreed to join him, but it was going badly wrong. The king’s men were happy to stand safely behind their spears as the rebels tried to force their way across the river, and, with such an advantage in numbers and terrain, Lancaster's forces would soon be crushed.

  The air was heavy with the harsh sounds of blade on blade, screams of wounded men and horses and ragged, desperate war-cries.

  “What do we do, now, Robin?” the giant known as Little John shouted at his friend, his great voice carrying effortlessly even through the din of battle.

  Robin was torn. It was against his nature to run from a fight. But the battle was lost – he could see that. Once Harclay's forces had killed enough of the rebels th
e king's man would surely lead his vastly superior force over the bridge to destroy the rest of them. It would mean certain death for Robin, and the men who had placed their trust in him to lead them.

  His heart swelled with pride as he glanced along the line at his friends, still shooting grimly into the enemy lines. Allan-a-Dale, Friar Tuck, Will Scaflock, his childhood friend Much…They were more than just outlaws; they were Robin’s friends: blood brothers.

  A great cry of victory went up from far to his left, and Little John, his great height giving him a better view of the battle, cursed. “The assault on the bridge has broken! It won’t be long before the earl's men take it, and the bastards’ll swarm over the bridge and circle us! We’re done, Robin!”

  The young leader looked around, trying to find their commander, the earl, but there was no sign of him. “Keep shooting, John!” Robin bellowed. “We’re not finished yet!”

  He knew they were done – he just hated the idea of running from the battle, possibly taking a sword in the back as they were charged down by the enemy cavalry. Even if they did make it to the trees a short distance away, what then? Back to a life hiding in the forest, not only an outlaw, but a rebel too. He tried to shoot faster, desperation fuelling his enormous arms, but fatigue was beginning to set in and the enemy numbers seemed to be as overwhelming as they had been when the battle started.

  Once Harclay's men came across the bridge Robin's outlaws would have to draw their swords and, with trembling, aching, spent limbs, fight a foe enraged by the arrows that had been killing and maiming them and their comrades.

  Robin could see his men were beginning to realise the same thing, as they began to glance nervously in his direction. He shouted in rage and continued to release arrow after arrow, each one sailing up almost majestically, before tearing down, viciously, into a target. Yet still the enemy stood, a vast host of men, as immovable as a castle wall.

  Suddenly another cry rose from dozens of throats, this time to their left, where the earl's men had given up their attempt to reach the ford, and, as their allies began to run for it, Robin knew the battle was as good as finished. An image of his wife, Matilda, smiling, her belly swollen with the child growing inside her, flashed into his mind and tears of frustration blurred his vision.

  He would not die here.

  “Retreat!” he cried. “Head for the trees! Head for the fucking trees!”

  Only those closest to him heard, as his tired voice cracked with the strain.

  Little John filled his great lungs and repeated the command. The outlaws looked along the line to make sure they had understood the order, then, seeing Robin, sword drawn, gesturing towards the copse of beech trees behind them, began to run.

  Many of the earl's men on either side of the fleeing outlaws shouted in dismay, telling them to hold their positions, but the outlaws ignored the cries.

  Robin waited until his men were all moving towards the forest before he began to follow. He felt a terrible sense of guilt to be leaving the earl’s men behind to face their fate, but he knew the battle was lost. He could see other groups of soldiers on all sides streaming back towards the forest in desperation now and knew he had ordered his friends to retreat at exactly the right time.

  Another great cheer went up from the bridge as the king’s men realised they were close to smashing their enemy and began to run across the bridge in pursuit, and Robin forced himself to move faster, his whole body aching, lungs burning.

  From the corner of his eye he saw a mounted nobleman screaming in rage, trying to order the men to hold the line. It was Thomas, the Earl of Lancaster. He had his sword drawn and was hacking at his own retreating men in fury, desperately trying to stop the rout.

  Robin was horrified at the sight of the earl attacking his own men, but the sound of pounding feet behind him told him King Edward’s army were coming fast and he grimly pushed on towards the trees, knowing he would be cut down should he falter or stumble.

  Ahead in the trees, he could see Little John and Much waving to him, willing him onwards, and mixed emotions struggled within him: anger at them, for not getting as far into the safety of the forest as possible, but also gratitude that they hadn’t simply left him behind.

  As he raced towards his friends in desperation, he could feel the ground tremble beneath him and he knew enemy cavalry were close behind. He couldn’t risk a look back to see how close they were, for fear of stumbling, but he expected any second to feel a sword hammer into his spine.

  He was more frightened than he had ever been in his life, and again, Matilda, and an image of a little boy, came into his mind as, sobbing, he bared his teeth and tried one last time to make his legs move faster.

  The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth and he knew he must have bitten his tongue as the pounding of hooves came closer and an enemy knight charged through the grass behind him. He imagined the pursuer laughing in grim satisfaction at the unresisting target fleeing desperately towards the trees.

  Much and John looked on in frustrated disbelief as Robin suddenly came to a halt and turned, sword held before him.

  “Come on then, you bastard!” he shouted, spreading his legs and moving into a defensive stance.

  The enemy horseman thundered towards him, almost fifteen hundred pounds of muscle and steel. In comparison Robin was closer to two hundred pounds and only lightly armoured. The gambeson he wore was the same beaten-up one his old captain, Adam Bell, had given him almost a year ago. He never wore a helmet or carried a shield, needing both hands free to shoot his enormous longbow.

  Even if he somehow managed to land a blow on the knight, the sheer weight of attacking horse and man would destroy Robin's body.

  He lost his sense of fear as the knight bore down on him, and time seemed to slow to a crawl. The horse’s eyes bulged, its great nostrils flaring, as its rider swept his longsword back, perfectly timed for the killing blow, and Robin felt a feral growl escape from his throat, enraged at the oncoming doom, but determined to meet it head on.

  From behind Robin an arrow tore through the air, somehow finding its way through the thin visor on the horseman’s helmet, lodging in his brain and catapulting him backwards to land, arms and legs flailing, on the hard ground behind.

  The charging horse, with no one to control it, veered to one side, away from the grateful outlaw, who stood rooted to the spot, thinking inanely of King Harold and how an arrow to the eye had killed him nearly three hundred years earlier, changing England forever.

  Hands grabbed his arm and he came back to the present, as Little John dragged him into the trees, towards Much, who held his longbow, ready to cut down any other pursuers. Robin grinned towards his childhood friend in gratitude, and Much laughed in relief.

  “We’ll talk about how lucky that shot was later,” John grunted. “Once we’re safely away from here. Come on, let’s move!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Now what?” Will Scaflock demanded. “We’re back where we started!”

  When Robin’s men had run from the battle, although they were scattered, they had slowly made their way back, in ones and twos, to meet up again in Barnsdale, at a prearranged spot well-hidden from the main roads.

  The king’s men had chased and harried all the fleeing rebels but many of them, including all of Robin’s gang, who were experienced woodsmen, had managed to escape into the forest, and safety. For now.

  Matt Groves slammed his open palm against a tree in frustration. “We’re not back where we started at all, Scarlet!” he shouted at Will. “Before this we were outlaws, hunted by foresters and, now and again, the sheriff’s men. Now we’re rebels – the king’s own soldiers will be after us!” He pointed an accusing finger at Robin. “This is all your fault, Hood! You told us to join the rebellion, and we followed you! Now what? We’re fucked!”

  Robin sat on a frost-covered fallen tree and shook his head wearily. He was tired of Matt Groves and his complaining. The rest of the group shared a strong bond of friendship and
mutual respect, but Groves had slowly become something of an outsider in their small band. The sheriff had offered to sell Robin's wife, Matilda, a pardon a few months earlier, but Matt had refused to part with any money. Every one of the other outlaws had been happy to help the girl and, thankfully, she had won her freedom eventually, but the incident still angered Robin.

  “I never told anyone to join the rebellion,” Robin retorted. “I decided to throw my lot in with the Earl of Lancaster and Sir Richard-at-Lee. The rest of you were free to do what you wanted.”

  “We all wanted to fight,” Much nodded, agreeing with his big friend. “Not just for pardons, but to bring some sort of justice to the country. This was our one chance to make a difference – to help the common folk. To help our friends and families in places like Wakefield and Hathersage.”

  There were grunts of agreement at that, but Matt snorted, looking around at the rest of the men in disgust. “The common folk? You mean like the people at Burton where Lancaster burnt the place down about their ears?” He turned to glare at Robin again, barely drawing breath as he continued. “You’re supposed to be our leader, Hood. We all trusted you to steer us right. You said it was a good idea – ‘we’ll all win pardons,’ you said. Well, where’s my fucking pardon then? And what about that king's man, Sir Guy of Gisbourne? That bastard has a hard-on for you and we're all going to suffer for it now!” As he ranted, his voice had grown steadily louder and he had moved slowly closer to Robin, so, his last, shouted words, were spat right in the young man’s face.

  Although Robin felt humiliated and angry, he also understood Matt’s frustration. No, he hadn’t told the men to join the Earl of Lancaster’s rebellion but he had suggested it was a good idea. Robin was still a very young man, only eighteen, and his lack of experience often made him question his leadership skills. Deep down, he wondered if maybe Matt Groves was right, and it was all his fault.