Blood of the Wolf (The Forest Lord Book 4)

  Blood of the Wolf

  by

  Steven A. McKay

  Kindle Version

  Copyright 2016 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:

  THE FOREST LORD SERIES

  Wolf's Head

  The Wolf and the Raven

  Rise of the Wolf

  Knight of the Cross

  Friar Tuck and the Christmas Devil

  For my Grandma, who always wanted to see a book of mine in the library.

  I hope I made you proud.

  Acknowledgements

  First and foremost I’d like to thank all my readers. Your incredible support has been the greatest encouragement any writer could ask for.

  Thanks must go, as usual, to all my beta readers, particularly Robin Carter who actually sowed the seed that grew into the plot of this book, and Nicky Galliers who helped me hone the early drafts with her fantastic knowledge. Similar thanks go to Bernadette McDade, Blair Hodgkinson and William Moore for flagging up early errors and great moral support. My editor Richenda deserves huge praise for helping me take my books to a higher level.

  My son inspired me every day with his wonderful, wild nature, and my daughter is always a big help, even taking some great PR photos of me in my study. Not bad for an eight year-old!

  Since this is the final book in this series I’ll also thank my cover designers More Visual, for creating such great art and helping me find a wider audience than I could have imagined, and Nick Ellsworth for bringing the audio versions of my books to life so entertainingly.

  I’ve been blessed to have you all around. Thank you.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Dewsbury, England.

  1326AD, Summer

  Little John didn't expect the attack on his leader. It came as a shock and, cursing inwardly, he knew he should have learned by now not to judge someone on how they looked.

  Still, the little landlord's punch was weak and, although it hit Robert Hood – commonly known as Robin – flush on the side of the face, the lawman barely seemed to register the blow. He instinctively lashed out, ramming the flat of his palm into the landlord's cheek, sending him flying sideways into a table, drinks flying and patrons roaring in anger at their spilled ale.

  “Watch what you're doing there man, for fuck sake!” one shouted, but closed his mouth and looked the other way when he noticed Little John's glare fixing on him.

  “Up, you.”

  Robin leaned down and hauled the landlord to his feet effortlessly, the muscles in his huge archer's arms bulging. “Since you won't discuss this reasonably we'll have to go somewhere more private.” He practically lifted the man off the floor and headed towards the room behind the bar, John following at the back. The half dozen men drinking in the Boar's Head grumbled to one another, watching the lawmen with distaste.

  “Fucking arseholes. Weren't so happy to treat us like this when they were outlaws themsel –”

  “What's that?” Little John spun, leaning down to meet the seated drinker's eyes. “Did I hear you saying something?”

  The man who'd spoken shook his head nervously and John nodded in satisfaction just before a stool shattered into his back. He dropped to the ground as splinters flew all about him and the sodden rushes he landed on.

  “Get the bastards!”

  The landlord grinned when he saw the altercation but his enjoyment didn't last for very long, as Robin punched him right on the bridge of the nose, hurling him into the wall. He slid down, legs gone, and sat on the floor holding his face.

  Little John had three men on top of him, all raining punches down on his head and body, while another three tried to aim kicks between their comrades, thankfully without much success. The fallen giant struggled to throw the attackers off, shaking the rafters with his frustrated roar.

  The villagers' senses were dulled by alcohol so their blows were mostly ineffectual but John knew the ale, and force of numbers, would also make the men more likely to try and use deadly force. He strained his great body, teeth gritted, face scarlet as he attempted to stand up, but a foot caught him in the ear and he collapsed with a cry, trying to raise his arms over his head.

  Abruptly, one man's weight disappeared, then another, and the giant bellowed like an enraged bull, throwing the final assailant off as he shoved his way back to his feet and looked about the room, ready to destroy the next person that came near him.

  Robin stood, panting, watching the villagers who could still move stumble out the front door. He held a cudgel in his hand and two of John's attackers lay on the vomit-encrusted alehouse floor. One groaned, rubbing the back of his head, while the other was unconscious.

  The three who had been standing aiming kicks at John backed away, palms held out in apology as the huge man threw his shoulders back, his head almost touching the ceiling. He stared balefully at them.

  The landlord tried to follow as they turned and sprinted for the open door, jostling one another in their haste, but Robin was too fast and grabbed the man by the collar, dragging him back and throwing him onto the ground where he lay, panting and wide-eyed.

  “You're a damn crook, Hood,” he gasped. “You're supposed to be one of us.”

  Robin shook his head and spat. “You haven't paid your rent, Martin. I'm just doing my job. Now – pay up or I'll throw you out on the street and find a new landlord.”

  “You can't do that,” the man shrieked. “What about my family? This is our home!”

  “Pay your rent then,” Robin said. “Like everyone else in the town. I've already given you extra time but you're messing me about and it ends here.”

  The landlord looked across at John pleadingly. “How can you just stand there and let him do this?”

  “Your mates just about broke my back there,” the huge bear of a man replied, although he looked at his leader uncomfortably. He hadn't expected to be collecting money from poor folk when Robin accepted the position as Sheriff Henry de Faucumberg's enforcer and then asked John to be his second-in-command. “We all have to pay our rent,” he finished lamely.

  For a few moments the landlord just lay there propped up on his arms, glaring, as though he would murder them with his eyes.

  “Come on,” John said, not unkindly, as he reached down and grasped the man under the armpit, raising him to his feet just as Robin had done a short time ago. “If you don't have it all just pay whatever you can. That's all right, eh?” He looked at Robin who shook his head.

  “He's had enough time to gather the money, John.” He looked back to the landlord. “Do you have it or not?”

  “No.” The reply was barely a whisper.

  Robin strode forward and dragged Martin away from Little John who watched in bemusement while his friend opened the inn door and shoved the landlord out into the street.

  “I'm evicting you then. I'll place your belongings in the barn, there, at the side of the building. Think yourself lucky I'm not arresting you.”

  He slammed the door in the shocked man's face and turned back to John.

  “Come on, we have to gather his stuff and secure the place before it's too dark to travel. I want to get home to Matilda and Arthur!” He grinned at the thought of his family waiting on him back home in Wakefield.

  Little John eyed Robin as he strode past towards the stairs to the upper level with a determined look on his handsome face. Didn’t he care about the fact he'd just made another family homeless for the sake of a few coins?

  He knew the bailiff was simply doing his job and
they were following the letter of the law but…

  In the name of Christ, it didn’t seem right somehow.

  When they’d been pardoned by Sir Henry de Faucumberg three years ago, Robin was given command of a few of the sheriff’s soldiers but guard duty didn’t suit the former outlaw at all. So, after a few months of that he’d been made captain of de Faucumberg’s guard but, again, there was too much standing around Nottingham castle – away from his family – for Robin’s liking. After that he was made temporary bailiff of one of the towns near Wakefield, which was fine, but then the regular officer returned from illness. For the past year Robin, with John who’d been at his side for all those years, was employed as a sort of roving bailiff. He retained the title, and salary, but instead of being tied to one place he went all around Nottingham and Yorkshire, collecting unpaid rents and fines and generally bringing low-level law to the people.

  “Hurry up!”

  Robin's shout broke his lieutenant’s reverie and, with a heavy sigh, John climbed the stairs to help shift all the evicted landlord's possessions outside.

  Thankfully, there wasn't much to collect. The landlord was married but there were no children – thank God, John thought – so it didn't take very long to gather the few items of clothing, bedding, a tired-looking old sword hidden under the sleeping pallet, and various other small items.

  “Good work,” Robin nodded, tossing an armful of his own into the blanket before John pulled the corners together and hefted the lot over a shoulder. “Let's go.”

  They clumped down the stairs and the young bailiff glanced back over his shoulder as they neared the bottom. “I'll give the man a coin so he can find somewhere for him and his wife to stay for a night or two. They won't be out on the streets.”

  John raised an eyebrow but only grunted in reply. It was better than nothing, he supposed, but the whole thing still seemed wrong. The fact he himself was the one carrying all the landlord's belongings outside meant he couldn't really upbraid Robin; he was just as much at fault as his friend. And they were merely doing their job.

  If they didn't do it, someone else would, he knew, and they'd probably be even bigger bastards than he or Hood.

  “Here's your stuff,” the massive lawman rumbled as they made their way outside to face the sullen evictee. “Check it's all there if you like.” He looked away uncomfortably, just glad the man's wife wasn't around. This was bad enough without another furious woman screaming at him in the street. “Nice sword,” he added, somehow hoping the compliment would make up for what was happening to the man, but the words were hollow. It was a shit sword and they both knew it.

  “Sorry, Martin,” Robin said, standing and looking down directly into the landlord's eyes. “I’ll need the keys from you too.” The bailiff appeared quite at ease with the situation and John wished he had the same composure and sense of self-belief as the younger man. Robin always seemed to believe what he was doing was right and did it with total conviction.

  The inn-keeper put hand inside his tunic and drew out a small bunch of keys which he tossed to Robin with bad grace.

  “Here,” Hood said, catching the keys in one hand and offering some coins to Martin with his other. “Take this and find a room and a meal for you and your woman.” He pressed the money into Martin's hand and then spread his arms wide. “If you can find the rent money within the next couple of days and get it to Earl Warenne's steward, he might let you move back in.”

  “Doubt it,” the evicted landlord spat. “He's probably got a new tenant already lined up.”

  “Don't mention it,” Robin retorted sarcastically and John wondered if his friend really expected the man to thank him for the small monetary gift when he'd just been made homeless.

  Maybe he did – the bailiff had changed quite a bit in the past three years.

  “Right. I’m away home,” Robin said, walking across to the stable at the side of the inn and climbing into his horse’s saddle. “You coming with me? I’m sure Arthur and Matilda would be glad to see you.”

  John shook his head. “Tell them I said ‘hello’, but I want to see my own wife and son so I’m off to Holderness. I’ll meet you in Wakefield in a couple of days and we’ll see what Sir Henry has lined up for us next, eh?”

  “All right. Take care on the road!”

  They waved to one another and rode off eagerly towards their homes.

  Martin stood forlornly outside his old inn, wondering how he’d explain this to his wife and wishing he had the balls to burn the damn place to the ground.

  CHAPTER TWO

  As promised, John rode into Wakefield two days later, the summer sun shining high overhead as he reached Robin’s house.

  The bailiff was in the garden with his infant son, Arthur. They didn’t seem to be playing any structured game as such, just running around on the well-tended grass whooping and shouting but the little boy was loving every second of it. The huge grin on Robin’s face suggested he was having fun too.

  John watched somewhat wistfully. His own son, also named John, was thirteen now and almost a man. The big lawman missed the days when he could play such innocent, nonsensical games with his own boy. Still, his visit to Holderness had been enjoyable. His wife, Amber, was always glad to welcome him home with a fine meal before they went out to the alehouse together and danced to the music played regularly by a couple of farmers who fancied themselves as minstrels.

  Amber was the perfect companion, John thought. She rarely complained about anything and, after John’s long years living in the greenwood as a wolf’s head, she’d been overjoyed to finally have him back living in their home when the sheriff granted Robin’s men pardons.

  “Uncle John!”

  Arthur spotted the bearded figure on horseback watching their game and sprinted for the gate, his little arms and legs working furiously as his father watched with a fond smile.

  The massive lawman slid somewhat clumsily from his horse and grabbed the boy under the arms, tossing him high into the air. Arthur squealed in delight and terror, laughing as John caught him and hugged him close.

  “Hello, you little rascal!”

  Matilda appeared at the door to the house and waved.

  “I’ll pour you some ale,” she said, and disappeared back inside as John came through the open gate, placed the excited child back onto the grass and grasped forearms with his captain.

  “Well met,” Robin smiled. “Come on inside and have a drink. I haven’t heard from the sheriff about our next job so we’ve got some time to relax and do nothing.”

  The interior of the Hoods’ house was cool after the blazing sun that had been John’s companion on the road that morning and the ale that Matilda poured for them was most refreshing.

  Robin’s wife joined them at the table as they chatted idly and drank and ate gooseberries which Matilda grew in the garden, knowing her husband liked their sweet sourness.

  “Come on outside, John,” Robin finally said with an appreciative nod to his wife for their repast, pushing his stool back from the table. “I better check on Arthur – he’s gone quiet and that’s often a sign he’s up to mischief.”

  The two men went outside, squinting in the sunlight and Robin was happy to see Arthur sitting quite innocently on the grass watching a line of ants hard at work.

  Just then the sound of thundering hooves came to them and the lawmen instinctively grasped their sword hilts, eyes searching along the road in the direction of the noise.

  The rider soon came in sight – a man in the familiar blue livery of the sheriff's guards.

  “Well met, Thomas,” John boomed, as the rider reached them and brought his mount to a noisy halt.

  “God give you good day, big man.” The soldier grinned in return before turning his attention to Robin. “Sir Henry requests your presence, bailiff.”

  “What, now? I was just telling John that we’d earned a few days rest.”

  “Now I’m afraid, aye,” Thomas confirmed. “Well, I say now, but I'm
sure I have time for a drink or two, and my horse to have a rest before we set off.”

  Matilda peered out at them, shaking her head.

  “What is this? Am I to feed all of Barnsdale today? Those gooseberry bushes only yield a small harvest you know.” She smiled at Thomas and beckoned the men inside again. “Come on, I’ll see what’s left. You can tie your horse to the fence there. Arthur!”

  The little boy glanced across, covering his eyes with a small hand to try and stop the sun getting in his eyes. “What?”

  “Come and get some oats. You can feed Thomas’s horse.”

  When they were seated and the messenger had slaked his thirst with a long drink of ale he leaned back on the stool and looked at Robin and John seriously. “There's trouble in Holmfirth and de Faucumberg wants the pair of you to deal with it.”

  “What sort of trouble?” Robin wondered, lifting another plump fruit from the trencher in front of them.

  “Whole place has been bewitched!” Thomas replied, eyes wide. He made the sign of the cross and nodded emphatically. “It's true. Satan himself's taken control of the village.”

  Robin turned to meet John's gaze but his friend simply frowned in puzzlement. Stranger things had happened; demons and devils were real weren’t they? There was no reason to doubt the story although the idea of facing a village full of evil spirits sent a shiver down the bailiff’s back and he felt for the reassuring hilt of his sword.

  At least it would be a change from evicting poor people…

  “All right then,” Robin said decisively. “Your horse looks rested enough to me Thomas – my boy’s fed him most of our oats from the looks of it. Come on, John – mount up.”

  “Hang on a minute,” the giant replied, shaking his head fearfully as his captain walked back out into the sunshine. “Are you sure about this? We’re lawmen, not priests.”

  “That’s exactly why we'll head for the church first,” Robin nodded grimly. “Come on.”