The Wolf and the Raven Page 10

  “There must be some religious relics in the churches around here,” Robin mused.

  “So what?”

  “Well, I’m just thinking…if they’re as powerful as the churchmen tell us…maybe one would help our prayers to wake Tuck?”

  Allan and Much looked at each other. Why not? It must be worth a try.

  “There’s something – I don’t remember what – in Brandesburton,” the minstrel told them. “When Little John returns to camp, maybe he’ll be able to tell us more; he knows that area well.”

  “I’m not keen on the idea of stealing something like this,” Robin said, but then he smiled and shrugged his massive shoulders. “Maybe we can borrow it for a while though.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “The fat friar’s as good as dead now,” Matt Groves growled over his shoulder as he relieved himself against a tree.

  “Always so cheerful, you,” Paul, the former fuller from Nottingham replied with a scowl.

  “I’m just being realistic.” Groves did his breeches up and turned round with a shrug. “Keeping him alive’s not doing him any favours. Someone should put him out his misery.”

  Paul and James, one of the men who had been on the raft with Much when Tuck was injured, had accompanied Groves to Darton that morning. They had come specifically to Darton because a local merchant was able to supply them with rope, something only port towns normally specialized in, but the two men had grown tired of Matt’s incessant grousing.

  “When we get back to camp, you can sort the friar out then,” Paul muttered. “Can we bloody hurry up though?”

  “What’s the rush?” Groves wondered, lifting his pack from the grass and following the others.

  Matt had managed to conclude his business quickly in the village, while Paul and James had been forced to take more time inspecting, and paying for, the rope that Little John had asked the merchant to obtain for them on a previous visit.

  Matt had spent the time waiting on his companions in the local ale-house. He’d also bought a skin of the dark ale which he’d been sipping from as they made their way back to camp.

  “Guy of Gisbourne has spies in all the villages about here, now,” James noted. “I’d rather not hang about in case ‘the Raven’ hears we’re around and comes hunting us. If you’d stop swilling that ale, and pissing it out, we’d make better time.”

  “The Raven!” Groves hooted, taking another mouthful of ale from the skin. “Fuck him and his fancy armour. He’s a fool. Had us in his grasp and let us escape.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Gisbourne’s no threat.”

  “All the same, can we hurry up?” Paul retorted, utterly fed up with his half-drunk companion. “The sooner we get back the better.”

  “Wait!” James stopped, holding a hand up for silence, his eyes wide.

  “Oh, what now?”

  “Shut up, you prick!” James glared at Matt, his hand on his sword hilt, listening intently.

  The unmistakeable thundering sound of horses close behind came to them.

  All three were hardy fighters, but none was a leader. They gazed at each other in fear, wondering what to do.

  “Run for it!”

  Paul shouted and spun to make his way into the undergrowth but a horseman burst through the trees beside them as they ran, swinging his longsword into the back of the fuller’s skull.

  James tried to head towards the thicker foliage nearby, but another mounted soldier charged into view, his horse clipping the outlaw on the shoulder and sending him sprawling on the ground.

  More riders appeared as he tried to rise, while Matt Groves stood, sword drawn, but with a blank look on his face.

  Matt instantly recognised the black armoured man as he rode up, crossbow in his right hand while expertly guiding his mount with his left.

  James sprinted towards a massive old oak, trying to find some cover, as, with a dull thud, Gisbourne released the trigger and his iron bolt hammered into the cold bark of the tree just beside his head.

  “Damn! Surround him!” The black knight roared with a grimace, tossing his weapon to one of his men to reload and wheeling his horse around to face Matt Groves. “This one's not hiding anyway!”

  Groves held his blade before him defensively. The ale he’d swallowed that day coursed through him, making him feel invincible, even though he could barely walk in a straight line.

  “Come on then, Raven,” the outlaw spat. “Get down from your horse and I’ll shove my sword up your arse!”

  Sir Guy raised his eyebrows in surprise, and then laughed. It was a genuine, happy laugh, and weirdly out-of-place in the present situation.

  “Very well.”

  Groves spread his feet wide defensively, the ale focusing his mind solely on the man directly in front of him as Gisbourne dropped from his mount and faced up to him, sword in hand.

  Matt Groves was no unskilled peasant. He had been a member of well-trained outlaw gangs for years, and that experience, combined with his natural aggression, made him a dangerous swordsman.

  He grinned as the black-clad Gisbourne walked towards him, waving at his men to stand down.

  “You’re the Raven, eh?” Matt growled, swinging his sword in a vicious, controlled arc, testing his opponent’s defences.

  “That’s me,” Gisbourne grinned, parrying the blow and stepping in close to ram his boiled-leather gauntleted fist into the outlaw’s nose.

  Groves fell backwards onto the ground, stunned, blood streaming down his face as the bounty-hunter smiled down at him.

  “Bastard!” The furious outlaw pushed himself to his feet, remembering Robin Hood breaking his nose not so long ago, and threw himself at Gisbourne, swinging his blade from side to side brutally, as if he was trying to smash his opponent’s weapon by sheer brute force.

  Sir Guy parried the onslaught for a few moments, then deftly stepped to the left and, as the outlaw fell slightly forward, the bounty-hunter slammed the pommel of his sword into Matt’s chin, throwing him to the ground, bloodied and stunned.

  “Don’t get up,” Gisbourne grinned, holding the point of his blade against Matt’s throat. “I want to talk to you.” He looked to the right as his men brought a silent, bloodied James out from behind the oak and dragged him over, throwing the wolf's head onto the forest floor beside Groves.

  “Now there's two of you, and I only need one.”

  The outlaws glanced at each other wondering what was going to happen next as Gisbourne carried on.

  “I need one of you to do something for me. A...favour, let's call it.” He looked down at the two men lying on their backs and smiled. “Who'll do me a favour?”

  For a few moments there was silence, and then James gave a short, forced laugh. “Fuck off, lawman. If you think we're going to betray Robin and our friends you can think again” –

  The king's man swept forward and shoved the point of his sword deep into James' neck, so hard it came out the other side and stuck in the grass underneath. Steaming hot blood spilled onto the grass below as the outlaw died, his eyes and mouth opened wide in shock and pain.

  Matt Groves watched his companion expire then looked up to meet the Raven's eyes.

  “I'll do you a favour.”

  * * *

  “St Peter’s thumb?”

  Little John nodded. “Aye, father, we need it.”

  The Priest of St Mary’s in Brandesburton looked bemused at the strange request, but shook his head firmly. “I can’t just give you one of our relics John, these things aren’t bread, or fish, to be bartered. St Peter’s thumb has been in the company of Christ himself. The people of our parish are proud to have it here – pilgrims come to pray before it.”

  “And pay you for the privilege,” Will growled.

  Father Nicholas de Nottingham, a small, completely bald man with intelligent eyes nodded defiantly at the glowering outlaw. “Aye, they give alms, what about it? Do you think our roof repairs itself when the January winds blow the slates off?”

  “Doesn�
��t God repair it for you?”

  “He does, yes,” the priest replied to a cynical-looking Scarlet. “God sent us the relic people pay to see didn’t he?”

  Robin laughed at de Nottingham’s unassailable logic, and waved a hand for Will to give it a rest.

  “Look, father, we need the relic. Our friend, Tuck, is badly injured. We hoped the relic might be able to heal him.” He held up a hand as the priest opened his mouth to reply. “We appreciate St Peter’s thumb brings your parish revenue. So, we’ll buy it from you.” He dropped some silver coins into the churchman’s palm. “Three pounds. That should buy you a few roof slates.”

  Father Nicholas gasped at the money, his eyes wide.

  Will had suggested they simply walk into the church and take the relic, but the other outlaws, more pious than Scarlet, had rejected the idea. Little John, who had lived in nearby Holderness, told them Father Nicholas was a good man – a local, not high-born, who had tried to do his best for the villagers while living frugally himself, unlike many of the other clergymen in England.

  In John’s opinion, the priest would spend the three pounds of silver wisely and fairly, for the benefit of the parish, rather than just buying himself jade rosary beads, new silk vestments and some imported French communion wine.

  “You’re good men,” de Nottingham smiled. “Even that one,” he nodded at Will, bringing laughs from Robin and Little John. “But” – he spread his hands, meeting Robin’s gaze – “it’s St Peter’s thumb! St Peter himself, our first pope! I can’t just sell a relic like that; it’s beyond price.”

  The three outlaws looked at each other in frustration. None of them, not even Will, wanted to take the relic by force, not after speaking to the sincere priest. But time was running out for Friar Tuck and they didn’t have time to hunt for another powerful relic.

  “Where did you get it?” Robin wondered.

  Father Nicholas looked uncomfortable. “It was a gift from Our Lord” –

  “Be honest with us,” Robin sat on one of the cold wooden pews, looking up at the churchman earnestly. “How did something like St Peter’s thumb end up in a tiny parish church in the arse-end of nowhere?”

  Father Nicholas had genuinely warmed to this young outlaw, with his open face – not at all like most of the other cut-throats infesting the greenwood – and found himself being more truthful than he would have expected when the three rough-looking wolf’s heads had wandered into his church a short while earlier.

  “A man – from London judging by his barely understandable accent – sold it to me for…well, that’s not important. He said he’d been given it as a gift for rendering some service or other to a bishop.”

  “And you believed him?” Will laughed.

  “No,” the priest shook his head. “It was obvious he’d stolen it.”

  “Why did you buy it from him then?” John wondered, sitting down beside Robin, his massive legs barely fitting into the space.

  “The reliquary is quite exceptionally crafted,” de Nottingham replied. “And it was clear the fellow was desperate. He wasn’t asking much at all for it, despite the obvious value of the thing. I believe he must have tried selling it in many different places, but been turned away – perhaps even chased by the local lawmen.” He shrugged. “As you say, this is a small parish in the middle of nowhere. We have some other relics, but they were nothing in comparison to this. I took pity on the man, gave him his price and sent him on his way.”

  “What does a thousand-year-old thumb look like?” Will asked.

  The priest shrugged again. “No idea, I’ve never been able to open the reliquary. It’s locked, I don’t have a key, and it’s simply too precious to damage by forcing it open.”

  The outlaws looked at him in disbelief.

  “You’ve never even seen it?” Robin demanded. “How do you know it’s not just an empty box?”

  Father Nicholas looked at the three friends with a small smile on his face.

  “You’re missing the point. It doesn’t matter what’s inside the box. I was told it was St Peter’s thumb – so that’s what I tell the pilgrims that come to see it. I’ve personally seen people with terrible afflictions touch the reliquary and become cured. It really doesn’t matter what’s in the box.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Besides, as I said, the reliquary is so ostentatious, so obviously valuable, it stands to reason it holds something of great value.”

  “It might hold nothing at all!” Will hooted derisively.

  “Then I bought a hugely expensive reliquary for a tiny sum, what’s the problem?” the little priest demanded, glaring at Scarlet who looked away, abashed.

  Robin stood up, the wooden pew creaking loudly in the cool silence.

  “Father, we need” –

  “Yes, yes, your friend is dying and so on,” the churchman butted in. “So you’ve said.” He moved towards Robin and looked up, meeting his eyes imperiously. “You’re an honourable man, so I hear.”

  The young outlaw remained silent, not quite sure whether he was ‘honourable’ or not.

  “So, I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” de Nottingham continued, turning his back on the trio and disappearing behind the altar.

  He reappeared a moment later, carrying the reliquary which was finely-decorated and, as the priest had said, obviously very valuable.

  “Here,” he thrust it towards Robin. “You can borrow it. But – whether your friend lives or dies – I expect you to return it to me.”

  “You’re a good man, father,” Will grinned.

  “I told you he was,” Little John agreed, slapping the clergyman on the shoulder gratefully.

  Robin took the small box reverentially and gingerly placed it into a pocket under his gambeson, nodding his thanks to the priest.

  “What do we do with it?” he asked. “I mean, how do we get it to heal Tuck?”

  “Place it on his chest and pray. But” – he raised his hand in warning – “don’t expect too much. It may be your friend’s time has come. He might be beyond healing.”

  With glad smiles and words of thanks the three outlaws made their way to the big oak doors, promising to return the valuable relic as soon as they could.

  As they stepped out into the sunlight, squinting as their eyes became accustomed to the brightness after the dim church, Robin turned and tossed the bag of silver to Father Nicholas who scrambled instinctively to catch it.

  “Hey!” the priest shouted, running after them as the outlaws wandered off. “Don’t forget I want the relic back – what’s this money for?”

  “Your roof,” Robin grinned over his shoulder. “It won’t repair itself when the slates blow off in January, will it?”

  * * *

  Stephen made good time on his journey to Clerkenwell, pushing his horse close to its limit in his desire to find aid for his master as soon as possible.

  In truth, he wasn’t sure exactly what he would find when he got there. It was many years since he had visited the place, and he doubted he would recognise any of the brothers residing there now.

  Not far from his destination – no more than two or three hours – dark grey clouds suddenly filled the sky, blown by a bitter wind from the east, and the Hospitaller cursed in frustration as light flakes of snow began to fall.

  He had hoped to reach the capital tonight, but knew it would be dangerous to continue his journey in the face of a gathering snowstorm.

  With an angry sigh he turned his horse about and headed back the way he had come. He had passed through a small village – Finchley according to the signs – just a couple of miles earlier. He’d noticed a small but, from the outside at least, cosy looking inn where he would spend the night.

  As his tired palfrey made its way along the road, Stephen felt his disappointment lift and he allowed himself a small smile at the thought of a roaring fire, a cosy bed and a few ales.

  Aye, he had hoped to be within the sturdy stone walls of the Hospitaller headquarters tonight, but you couldn’t argu
e with a snowstorm. Besides, he’d ridden hard and spent the previous six nights under cold blankets in a simple tent – he and his mount had earned a proper roof over their head tonight.

  Tomorrow morning he’d ride into Clerkenwell and deliver Sir Richard’s letter to the Prior.

  * * *

  “Where’s the three that went off to Darton this morning?” Much wondered, stirring the big cauldron of pottage over the fire, sniffing at the contents with a small smile of pleasure. “It’ll be dark soon.”

  “That’s why it’s so peaceful around here,” Allan-a-Dale looked up from where he sat resting against a tree, a broad grin on his face. “That sour-faced bastard Matt’s not here.”

  “Don’t speak too soon.” The skinny youngster, Gareth, jogged into camp. He was acting as one of the lookouts and, from his vantage point high in a thick old beech, had spotted Matt approaching.

  “Coming from the west, alone, no sign of Paul or James. And he’s got blood on his face, looks like he’s been in a fight.”

  “Everyone up!” Robin roared, running for his longbow and arrows, his stomach lurching in apprehension as the men followed his lead, hurriedly strapping on swords, bracers, helmets and whatever other weapons or armour they each favoured.

  “What now?” John wondered. “Someone might be following him.”

  Robin nodded agreement. “Everyone find a place to hide. Those of you who can shoot a longbow, have them trained on the path to the west, where Matt’ll appear. The rest of you, have your swords, axes or whatever ready. I’ll wait here for him.”

  It was a measure of Robin’s ever growing stature amongst the outlaws that no-one questioned his orders, the men melting away like wraiths into the dense green undergrowth, the sounds of insects and birds filling the air and lending the scene a serenity the young captain didn’t feel inside.

  It took a short while, but eventually Matt Groves walked into camp, looking at Robin warily.

  “Where is everyone?”

  “Where do you think?” Robin retorted, his eyes scanning the trees behind Groves uneasily. “We saw you coming.”