The Prisoner

  The Prisoner

  by

  Steven A. McKay

  Copyright © 2016 Steven A. McKay

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

  Northern England, 1325 AD

  Winter

  It was snowing hard, the wind whipping around the legs of their horses and inside the damp folds of their travel cloaks. Robert Hood, more commonly known as Robin, muttered an oath, was wishing he and his giant companion John Little – himself better known as Little John – were in a tavern somewhere closer to home.

  The thought of a cosy, crackling log fire and a mug of warmed ale momentarily cheered him, until the gloom overwhelmed him once again and he remembered they were still at least an hour away from their destination.

  “What do you think the sheriff will do with the rapist when we take him to Nottingham?” John shouted, his voice powerful enough to carry over the sound of hooves thudding into snow, and the gale that whistled through the bare trees flanking the road.

  Robin shook his head and shouted in reply. “Probably abjuration. That’s what usually happens to men like that.”

  “Serve the bastard right too,” his giant lieutenant growled. “He deserves to be banished abroad. There’s never any excuse for forcing a woman into your bed.”

  Both men had known rapists before in their experience, both as lawmen and when they’d been notorious, fabled outlaws themselves. They’d robbed and even killed people but never had they abused a woman in such a way, and they’d not allowed any of their old gang members to behave like that either.

  Robin’s thoughts inevitably turned to his wife, Matilda, at home in Wakefield with their son, Arthur, and from the pensive look on John’s bearded face he guessed his giant friend was thinking along similar lines.

  “Don’t worry, John, this won’t take us too long. We’ll spend the night at Stapleford’s inn – with a few ales and some stew to keep us company – then see the prisoner safely back to Nottingham. Unless Sir Henry has another job lined up for us, we’ll be able to head home for a while. The sheriff’s covering our expenses too, so eat as much of the food at the inn as you can stomach.”

  They shared a grin despite the weather and distance from their loved ones, pulling their cloaks tighter to try and stave off the worst of the biting chill.

  “Aye, you’re right,” Little John agreed as their mounts picked their way along the treacherous road. “This should be an easy enough job.”

  * * *

  When they reached Stapleford it was late in the day and there seemed little point in declaring themselves to the headman and locating the prisoner. What would be the point? They couldn’t take the rapist back to Nottingham until morning anyway.

  Instead, they stopped for a time to gaze up at a huge stone monolith that stood near the road, infinitely strange and mysterious in the surrounding flat landscape.

  “Must be the Hemlock Stone,” John guessed. “I’ve heard of it in passing. Apparently the devil threw it there because the sound of church bells pissed him off.”

  Robin looked at the sandstone monument which was three times as big as Little John and shook his head in wonder. “Maybe. I wouldn’t believe every fanciful story you’re told though.”

  The wind began to blow even harder, sending flurries of snow all around, so they moved on again, heading for the brightest-lit dwelling they could see as they rode into the main street – the alehouse.

  The welcoming light, and smell, of a log fire filtered out from the two-storey building and they were drawn inexorably towards it, like moths to an open candle.

  They found the cramped stable building that was attached to the inn and tethered their horses – all three of them, since they’d brought a spare to carry the prisoner – before hurrying inside and hailing the landlord.

  “Well met, friend,” Robin smiled. “We’ll need a room for the night and some food and ale, if that’s all right?”

  “Aye, my lords,” the man grinned, eyeing their weapons and good-quality, if simple, clothing. “We don’t get many visitors during the winter months, for obvious reasons, so you’re very welcome here. I’ll see about your food right away. You take a seat there and warm yourselves.” He gestured at a table by the crackling fire and turned away.

  “Send your stable boy to see to our mounts, too, if you would,” Robin shouted and was rewarded with a small wave of agreement and a shouted promise of oats and hay.

  They seated themselves by the fire with sighs and broad smiles of satisfaction, rubbing their hands to bring some warmth back into them, basking in the glorious warmth which had already begun to thaw their icy fingers and toes and turn their cheeks red.

  Soon enough the inn-keeper brought them two mugs of ale, gesturing to the pokers by the hearth which they might use to warm the drinks if they wished. When he wandered back to the kitchen Robin and John gladly placed the implements into the flames for a time then dipped them in the ale mugs, watching the dark liquid hiss as it heated invitingly. Soon, as they sat supping the wonderful, slightly herby drinks the man returned with two steaming bowls and a trencher laden with a loaf of black bread.

  “Enjoy, my lads,” he smiled, and his expression was one of a man who knew his food was sure to please. “If you want any more – and you will – just shout.”

  They set to with relish and soon finished the meal but, before they could even wave him over, the inn-keep had bustled across and set down second helpings, clearing their empty bowls away with a knowing, satisfied smile.

  “Oh, this is the life,” John gasped, as he swallowed another long pull of ale, and Robin nodded, mumbling an incoherent reply through a mouthful of the excellent stew.

  As they devoured their second serving the alehouse door opened again and a flurry of snow whipped inside before the newcomer thrust it to and stamped his feet on the hard ground to remove the slush packed hard around them.

  He was a slim fellow, of average height, with hard, confident eyes that swept the room before settling at last on Robin and John.

  Robin watched the man as he strode across the small common room towards them, a smile appearing on his face as he neared their table.

  “You must be the lawmen from Nottingham.”

  “Well spotted. What gave us away?”

  The man pulled up a stool and sat next to them, not noticing or perhaps simply ignoring the gentle sarcasm in John’s voice.

  “We don’t get many visitors around here, and even less as big as you two. Word came to me that you’d arrived, so here I am to greet you.” He raised a hand to catch the burly inn-keeper’s attention. “I’ll be paying for the lads’ meal and board, Simon. All right?”

  The landlord nodded, gave a small grunt that might have meant anything, and went back to polishing the top of his bar with a filthy old rag that could only be spreading the grime about.

  “There’s no need for that, friend,” Robin shook his head, assuming, correctly, that this newcomer must be the village headman. “The sheriff, Sir Henry, is covering all our expenses.”

  The man winked. “Sir Henry de Faucumberg is a cousin of mine, but he doesn’t have to know that someone else paid for your stay here, does he? You two hold onto the coins he gave you. Go on, put them back in your purses. We’ll see you right in Stapleford since you’re here to do me – us – a good turn by taking that foul raper away.”

  He got to his feet and surprised, Robin swallowed a piece of breadas the man made to head back into the night.

  “Won’t you stop and have a drink with us?” the lawman shouted.

  “No thank you, although God bless you for the thought. I’ve got work of my own to do this night and it can’t wait. Head to
the mill tomorrow – Simon will direct you although it’s easy enough to find. The prisoner – Luke Tanner – is being held in the basement there for now, and I expect you’ll want to get him back to the city as soon as possible, eh? See justice done?”

  He waved merrily and, before the lawmen could utter another word, the door was opened with a chill blast and he was gone.

  “Strange fellow,” Robin muttered, thoughtfully tipping another spoonful of stew into his mouth. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like him before.”

  John simply shrugged, sighing as a sip of ale warmed his body. “Lots of people are strange. Let’s just do as he says and enjoy the hospitality he’s paying for. We can find out more about this whole business tomorrow, if you want.”

  “Aye, fair enough,” Robin nodded drowsily. “I suppose you’re right.”

  He finished his meal and leaning back in the creaking chair, patted his stomach, although the feeling of contentment was somewhat offset by the look he’d noticed on the inn-keeper’s face when the headman was leaving.

  Hate might have been too strong a word to describe the expression, but it was clear the jovial landlord had little time for the suave fellow.

  “More ale,” John called and, by now utterly relaxed, pulled off his damp boots and set stockinged feet towards the fire.

  “No more food though,” Robin joked, eyeing the giant’s waggling, sweating toes theatrically. “I’ve just lost my appetite.”

  * * *

  Through long habit both lawmen woke early the next morning despite the lack of any sunlight to suggest a new day was upon them. They dressed, checked their weapons were all strapped securely in place, and ate a frugal breakfast of bread and cheese which the bright-eyed inn-keeper insisted they have before they left.

  The man escorted them to the door and pointed along the frosty street towards a structure which, despite the gloom, could be seen quite clearly thanks to its great bulk.

  “There’s the mill,” he said, handing them full ale-skins and a pack stuffed with food. “Since William Broadhurst is paying for this I thought I might as well make sure you wouldn’t go hungry or thirsty.”

  “William Broadhurst? That’s the headman who came last night to see us?”

  “Aye,” the inn-keep nodded, a sneer creasing his upper lip momentarily, and Robin guessed the man must be jealous of Broadhurst who was handsome, confident and, judging by his dress and be-ringed fingers, extremely wealthy.

  They thanked the landlord for his hospitality and headed towards the mill on foot.

  The previous day’s snow had left a crisp, fresh white carpet underfoot which crunched satisfyingly as they walked and it didn’t take them very long to reach the squat building. The water wheel was turning at a steady, creaking pace and the presence of candle-light inside the mill suggested the miller was at work already, grinding grains into flour which he’d then sell on to the baker.

  Robin rapped authoritatively on the wooden door and let himself in, followed by John.

  “You’ll be here for the prisoner?” shouted the miller, a short, well-muscled young man in his mid-twenties, over the noise of the grinding stones, without stopping his work or offering any other greeting. “He’s down there.” He nodded towards a trapdoor in the floor which was covered with heavy sacks of grain. “You’ll need to shift those bags yourselves lads, shouldn’t be too hard for men of your size.” He smiled sheepishly. “Sorry there’s so many of them piled up. Broadhurst didn’t want any chance of the bastard escaping.”

  Rolling his eyes, Little John strode across and started tossing the sacks to the side effortlessly. Robin joined him and when they’d cleared the obstruction, pulled the trapdoor open revealing an inky blackness below.

  The bailiff peered down into the chamber beneath, but it was impossible to see anything, so complete was the darkness.

  “Luke Tanner? You down there? Come up,” he shouted. “Now.”

  Robin was, by now, used to giving commands and his powerful voice seemed to persuade the captive below to come up without a fight as the rickety steps leading up towards them shook. A moment later a handsome man stepped into the room beside them. He appeared well-groomed despite his incarceration, and glared at them defiantly but remained silent.

  The miller looked embarrassed by the whole situation and, face flushing red, turned away from his fellow villager and went back to his work.

  John pulled a short, slim length of rope from beneath his cloak and used it to bind their prisoner’s hands behind his back.

  “Let’s go,” Robin shouted over the near-deafening squeak and rumbling of the mill’s mechanisms.

  “And,” John added his own great booming voice to his captain’s, “don’t even think about trying to escape you raping scum, or you’ll feel my quarterstaff on the back of your skull.”

  “Better tell Broadhurst you’re off,” the miller said, following them as they left the building and emerged into the street again. “That’s his house over there.”

  “Bollocks,” John grumbled, realising the headman’s house was in the opposite direction to the inn, and their horses.

  “At least the sun’s up,” Robin smiled, pushing their prisoner ahead of them. “Should be a nicer day than yesterday, so we’ll make good time and be back in Nottingham before we know it.”

  * * *

  The headman’s house was much bigger than most of the other houses in the village. It sat slightly apart from the rest boasting two storeys and glazed windows rather than just wooden shutters.

  Only one other house they passed came close to it in size, but that appeared deserted, despite being in a good state of repair.

  The door opened before Robin had a chance to knock, and William Broadhurst greeted them with a smile.

  “God give you good day,” the headman said, gesturing them inside, but Robin rejected the invitation with a wave of his hand.

  “We have no time to waste, we must return to the sheriff as soon as possible, before the weather turns again. We just wanted you to know we’d taken charge of the prisoner.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it. Be wary of him,” Broadhurst warned, throwing Tanner a nervous glance. “He can be violent when angry. As his poor victim will attest.”

  Robin glanced at their captive but the man remained silent.

  “Don’t worry about us,” Little John rumbled, his eyes fixed on Tanner. “If it comes to violence there’s none better than me and Robin.”

  A pretty young woman appeared in the doorway, her blue eyes wide as she looked from William the headman to the sullen prisoner.

  Then with a cry of “You lying bitch!”Tanner suddenly threw himself forward toward the girl, his face twisted in a murderous rage, but he slipped in the snow, hindered by his bindings.

  As Tanner crashed to the ground face-first, the headman and the startled girl jerked backwards in fright. In contrast, Little John bent down and slapped Tanner hard across the side of the head.

  It was enough. The fight left the prisoner and he simply lay in the snow, eyes pressed tightly shut against the obvious agony the giant’s blow had caused.

  “You’re his victim?” Robin asked, eyeing the girl who looked as if she wanted the ground to swallow her whole.

  “She is,” William Broadhurst replied. “As you can see from her injuries. Show them, Joan.” He gestured to the nervous woman.

  Joan stared at the fallen captive for a few moments before reaching up and drawing the collar of her tunic down to reveal her pale neck. Pale, that was, apart from the purple and yellow bruises which had clearly been made by grasping, forceful fingers.

  “He did that, lady?” Robin demanded, glaring down at Tanner who had pushed himself to his knees in the snow watching the girl venomously.

  “He did,” she whispered, her eyes flicking from the prisoner to the headman.

  “As I say,” Broadhurst repeated, “he is a very violent man. Please be careful. Never take your eyes from him!”

  “G
od curse you both,” Tanner cried, but he made no more threatening movements. John’s blow had cautioned him well enough against further attempts at violence towards Joan or the headman.

  “Come on,” Robin said to his lieutenant brusquely. “Let’s get this son of a whore to Nottingham.” He nodded farewell to Broadhurst, then looked at Joan with a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry yourself about this man any more. We’ll make sure justice is served.”

  The grim-faced lawmen walked back towards the alehouse, shoving Luke Tanner ahead of them, the memory of the bruises on the young woman’s neck playing on both their minds.

  * * *

  As Robin had foreseen, the previous day’s snow held off, and a bright sun occasionally peeped out from between the clouds as the party of three rode back towards Nottingham. It was still cold, despite the sunshine, so the ground remained hard with frost rather than turning to slush.

  “We should have this one in the sheriff’s cells soon enough,” John said, cheerfully. “Then justice will be served.”

  The prisoner tried to spit into the road in disgust but his lips were numb from the frost and the speckles of saliva dribbled down his chin. His hands were bound before him so he could grasp the horse’s bridle, but even so, he made no effort to wipe the spittle.

  He looked close to tears, in fact.

  Neither Robin nor John said much for the rest of the morning while Tanner remained completely silent, and the miles passed under their mounts’ hooves until, a short while before midday, Robin called a halt. They hadn’t set a hard pace, but the horses’ sides were steaming and it seemed a good time to rest and have some refreshments.

  John moved to help their captive down from the saddle while Robin led the horses to a brook which ran parallel to the road, allowing them to drink their fill before tethering them to some elm trees.

  “Ow, watch what you’re doing you damn oaf,” Tanner cried, as John inadvertently twisted his arm while helping him down to the ground.

  Before Hood could intervene, Little John, face twisted in anger, grabbed hold of the prisoner by the neck, lifted him clear off the grass, and threw him as if he were just a child.