The Wolf and the Raven Read online

  Groves misread Robin’s silence and downcast eyes, assuming his young leader was ignoring him. “Are you listening to me, you arrogant young prick?” he demanded, his hand shooting forward to grasp Robin round the neck.

  Without realising what he was doing, Robin reacted instinctively. His left wrist flicked up and round, knocking Matt’s hand past his shoulder, as his right fist shot out, slamming straight into Matt’s nose with a crunch of bone and cartilage.

  Groves fell back onto the frosty wet grass, his eyes wide in shock, but before he could react, Little John and Will pinned him to the ground.

  “Just stay where you are, Matt,” John grunted, as the fallen man struggled to rise, his face a mask of fury, blood trickling from his nostrils. The rest of the outlaws stood watching the confrontation in silence, wondering where it would lead.

  Robin thought quickly. Although Matt Groves was not well liked amongst the outlaws, thanks to his sour nature and constant complaining, he was respected. All of the men had been in fights with Matt at their side, and many of them had been saved from the point of a forester’s sword by his actions.

  The young leader couldn’t just tell Groves to leave their group; he had to deal with this situation properly, while retaining his authority in front of the men.

  “Let him up,” Robin muttered to Will and John, who warily let go of Matt’s arms, the three of them climbing slowly to their feet, Groves wiping his upper lip and grimacing in disgust at the blood smeared on the back of his hand.

  Robin looked around at the men, addressing them as one. “I’m going to head back to our last camp-site, and carry on as before. We have no other choice. Aye, it’ll be hard – even harder than before the rebellion. But there’s nothing else to do – so…I’m not ordering anyone to follow me. You’re all big boys; you can make up your own minds. Barnsdale’s a big place, with lots of trees to hide in, especially now as spring's on its way. I’m sure you can all find somewhere to try and keep out of the king’s way. Anyone that wants to, though, is welcome to come with me.” He looked into the eyes of the men, his face earnest. “I hope you all do.”

  Matt Groves hawked and spat a gob of blood onto the forest floor.

  “You can do what you like,” Robin glared at him. “For what it’s worth, I’d be more than happy if you'd just fuck off. Go your own way, so we don’t have to listen to your complaining all the time. But it’s your choice: go where you will.” He moved forward to stand in front of Groves and lowered his voice to a menacing growl, just loud enough for everyone else to hear. “If you ever try and lay a hand on me again though, old man, I’ll rip your face off and nail it to a tree.”

  Matt held eye contact with the younger man for a moment then turned away with a sneer.

  Robin collected his few belongings and moved off in the direction of Notton, not far from Wakefield, where the outlaws had spent the previous winter. It was as good a place as any to set up camp, he thought. He didn’t look back as he made his way through the forest, but he muttered a quiet prayer to Mary Magdalene that his friends would all follow him.

  Much caught up with him, clapping a big hand on his leader’s back, sympathetically. “You all right?”

  Robin shrugged. “Not really. Will’s right – we’re fucked. Back worse off than we were before Christmas. And not just us: the whole country.” He shook his head angrily, the disappointment of being on the losing side in the rebellion threatening to overwhelm him. His hopes and dreams had gone up in smoke as he had shouted at his men to retreat from the battle of Boroughbridge. He had desperately wanted the pardon the Earl of Lancaster had promised him. His wife Matilda was carrying their unborn child and he wanted so much to be a part of the little one’s life; a real father. A real husband.

  That would be nigh on impossible living as a wolf’s head in the forest. His rage boiled impotently inside him, and he almost hoped Matt Groves would attack him again so he could take his frustration out on the bastard.

  He felt suddenly ashamed as he looked over at Much, a young man who had lost his home and his entire family and been left with nothing. At least Robin still had his parents and his wife in Wakefield, even if he couldn’t be with them as often as he’d like. He put an arm around Much’s shoulder and threw his old friend a grin. “We’ll be all right – we just need to find some other way to earn a pardon now.”

  There was a sarcastic laugh from behind him at that, and he turned to see Will Scarlet following, his green eyes twinkling. Little John and Friar Tuck were a little way behind and, as he looked back along the trail Robin’s heart soared as he realised his men had all decided to follow him.

  He might not have his family beside him, but this gang of outlaws was a brotherhood. He grinned at them all and walked on with his head high.

  Matt Groves traipsed along at the rear, shoving branches and foliage out of the way angrily, his face twisted in a scowl. It would be suicide to head into the forest on his own just now though, with the king’s men still hunting the rebels, so he followed Robin and the others bitterly.

  His nose ached, and the blood drying around his mouth cracked uncomfortably as it dried in the chilly morning breeze. Hood had beaten him today – humiliated him in front of these men he had known for years. But Matt Groves was a man that knew how to hold a grudge – he would find a way to pay the young arsehole back eventually.

  He just had to be patient, and watch for his chance.

  * * *

  “Shut up, you scum!” Henricus Chapman, steward to the Sheriff of Nottingham and Yorkshire, roared at the people gathered in the great hall of the castle. “The king is at the gate! Make yourselves presentable, and keep your mouths shut!”

  The sheriff, Sir Henry de Faucumberg, shook his head at his steward’s harsh words, but his own nervousness at the impending royal visit stopped him from reprimanding the over-zealous official.

  As a result of the failed rebellion many men from the surrounding villages who had thrown their lot in with the defeated Earl of Lancaster had either been killed or chased into the forests as outlaws. Now, their families – wives, children, brothers, parents – came to the sheriff pleading for mercy. Who would work the land if so many men were declared outlaws and hunted down? Who would support their children? More importantly to the sheriff and his noble peers, who would pay their rents?

  De Faucumberg was prepared to grudgingly allow the hundreds of defeated rebels to return quietly to their homes. He was no philanthropist, but the local economy needed those men – not to mention the fact hunting them all down would be a major burden on his own military resources.

  Now, though, one of his men had hurried to see him with news from one of Nottingham’s gatehouses. King Edward II was at the gate, making his way to see the sheriff. It wasn’t an entirely unexpected visit, but de Faucumberg had hoped for a little more notice than this.

  He absent-mindedly smoothed imagined creases from his expensive robe, ran his hands over his short greying hair and breathed on his gold chain of office, working it to a nice shine with his sleeve. He looked up irritably as the newest addition to his staff strode confidently up to stand before him.

  Sir Guy of Gisbourne had been sent by the king a few months earlier, to hunt the outlaws hiding in Barnsdale. Robin Hood in particular.

  De Faucumberg had failed to catch Hood and his gang as they robbed a number of powerful nobles and clergymen during the last year. King Edward had grown impatient and, eventually, sent his own man to help. Gisbourne was an experienced bounty-hunter – ruthless, intelligent, and an expert forester to boot. The king expected him to soon take care of the notorious Hood and his gang, who were fast becoming folk heroes to the poor, downtrodden people of northern England.

  Sir Henry de Faucumberg couldn’t stand the sight of the tall, self assured Gisbourne. He had no choice but to work with him though, and, if the king’s man managed to kill Hood and his men – well, good! One less wolf’s head to worry about. Then the overly confident lanky big bastard could b
ugger off back to the king.

  “Oh, get up here and sit beside me, Gisbourne,” the sheriff groused. “The king will expect to see his bounty-hunter.” De Faucumberg indicated the empty seat to his right, and Sir Guy stepped onto the raised dais before settling into the vacant chair with a grin at the sheriff.

  De Faucumberg, nervous at the thought of meeting the king under these circumstances, suddenly leaned forward to glare into Gisbourne’s surprised face.

  “You watch what you say to the king,” he whispered with a snarl. “Don’t forget, he’ll be gone in a day and you’ll be left behind again…with me and my men.”

  There was a commotion near the doors as the steward hurried back into the great hall and lifted his powerful voice.

  “His royal Highness, King Edward!”

  “I’ll be left behind with you?” Gisbourne quietly asked the sheriff, as the king and his retinue filed into the hall. “You’re assuming you’ll still be sheriff after I give my report to the king…”

  De Faucumberg glared at Gisbourne, but the king’s man grinned back, clearly enjoying the sheriff’s discomfort.

  King Edward cut an imposing figure as he strode to the front of the hall. Handsome and tall, even taller than Sir Guy, and much broader across the shoulders with long wavy fair hair that curled around his neck.

  Gisbourne dropped to one knee, his head bowed respectfully as England's ruler approached them and De Faucumberg quickly followed suit.

  “Highness, be welcome!” the sheriff intoned, eyes on the impeccably polished wooden floorboards.

  “Yes, yes, very good, Sir Henry.” King Edward swept past his kneeling subjects and took his seat, in the middle of the table, between the sheriff’s and Guy of Gisbourne’s chairs.

  “Get up. I don’t have time for this,” the king shouted to the gathered people. He lifted the silver goblet of wine before him and drained it with a loud gasp of pleasure. A wide-eyed serving boy rushed over, jug in hand, to refill the cup, but the king waved him away irritably.

  “Let me guess, de Faucumberg,” Edward growled, as the sheriff took his seat and looked at the king. “These people are here hoping their men who took up arms against me will be pardoned.”

  De Faucumberg nodded. “Yes, my liege. It seems many local villagers joined the ill-fated rebellion. Without those men the economy will struggle.”

  The king nodded grimly. “I understand that. It’s hard enough for these people to survive, yes?”

  The sheriff nodded again, thankful that the king understood the issue so well.

  “Then they should have thought of that before they rebelled against my rule!” King Edward suddenly slammed his hand on the table, his face red with anger. “You people!” He roared, glaring at the men and women gathered in the hall. “Get back to your villages, and make sure you pay your rents! When your children are starving, and your bellies are swollen with hunger again maybe your men will think twice about rebelling against their rightful king. Get out!”

  De Faucumberg, his earlier thoughts of leniency to the villagers forgotten in the face of the king’s rage, shouted at his guards. “You heard him! Get those people out of here, now!”

  As the frightened men and women streamed out of the hall Edward leaned back and, brandishing his empty goblet, shouted for a refill.

  “I understand your dilemma, de Faucumberg,” the king told the sheriff, gazing up at the vaulted ceiling. “But I want these traitors hunted down and destroyed. Every last one of them.” He held up a hand as the sheriff opened his mouth to protest. “You need soldiers, I know. I have them for you: another thirty men.”

  De Faucumberg let a small smile creep over his face at the thought of such an increase in his personal militia, and he glanced over at Sir Guy with a triumphant smirk.

  “They will be under Sir Guy of Gisbourne’s command.”

  The sheriff's face fell in disbelief as Edward continued. “You’re tied up with your administrative duties in Nottingham and Yorkshire, Henry. Sir Guy will hunt down the rebels. I don’t know why you look like someone’s pissed in your wine – you’ve got it easy.”

  “Sir Henry is one of the best administrators I’ve ever worked with, Sire,” Gisbourne told the king solemnly, as the sheriff listened in surprise. “I’m sure that, between us, we can hunt down these rebels while making sure the rents are paid on time.” He glanced at de Faucumberg, eyebrows raised. “Eh, Sir Henry?”

  The sheriff, a man who had known great power over a period of many years, felt lost under the steely eyes of the king and the smirking bounty-hunter. He nodded.

  “Yes, my liege. We’ll look after things for you. But…”

  The king looked irritably at the sheriff. “But what?”

  “Well, without their men…some of the local villages won’t survive the winter.”

  The king shrugged his shoulders and emptied his goblet, wine running down the side of his mouth. “Fine,” he said, wiping his chin neatly with a napkin. “Pardon the ones you see fit. Not the ringleaders though – not the knights and noblemen. Those you will kill or imprison until I can decide their fate, yes? And what about that outlaw I sent Gisbourne here for in the first place? Have you managed to catch him?”

  De Faucumberg shook his head, not wanting to admit Robin Hood and his men had been spotted within the ranks of the Earl of Lancaster's army. “Not yet” –

  “Fear not, sire,” Sir Guy broke in, his earlier smile replaced with a determined scowl that chilled the sheriff to the bone. “The commoners see him as some legendary swordsman – a great hero like Arthur or Lancelot. I'll show them he's nothing more than a dirty peasant with ideas above his station. Count on it, my liege: I'll bring the wolf's head to justice, one way or another...”

  “Good, that's all settled then,” King Edward nodded contentedly, gesturing to the serving boy for another refill. “I’ll leave you two to sort it out – I'm off to deal with my cousin the Earl of Lancaster in the morning. Now…where’s your entertainment, de Faucumberg? I’m looking forward to a fine evening. The sheriff of Manchester has a minstrel who can fart a tune you know.”

  * * *

  “That stinks, you dirty bastard!”

  Will Scarlet grinned, as Little John covered his bearded face theatrically with his sleeve.

  “Sorry,” Will laughed. “I must’ve eaten too much of that cabbage yesterday. It's good for the digestion they say.”

  “In the name of God,” John grunted with a scowl. “I thought it was hell on Earth fighting the king’s men but your arse is deadlier than a blade in the guts.”

  Winter was retreating, so, as they settled back into their old camp near Notton the outlaws were able to sleep in the open again, under sturdy shelters, rather than crushed together in a cramped cave as they had been before joining the earl’s army.

  They clustered around the camp-fire, enjoying its warmth and light as glowing embers crackled into the night sky, drinking ale, playing dice, and singing songs.

  So far they’d managed to avoid the king’s soldiers, although they’d heard tales from the locals roundabout of other rebels being caught in the forest and hanged or worse. It was only a matter of time until they’d be forced to fight for their lives, Robin mused, as he sat, staring into the camp-fire and nursing a mug of ale.

  He had sent a message to Wakefield, to let his family, and Will’s daughter Beth, who also lived there, know they were all alive and well, although still outlaws.

  “Any idea what we’re going to do?” Friar Tuck sat down with a grunt next to the young leader, an ale in one hand and a leg of roast duck in the other.

  Robin smiled at his portly friend, shrugging his shoulders in reply. “Not really. I can’t see anything for us to do, other than what we’ve been doing all along: living here in the greenwood, robbing rich folk, counting on the good will of the villagers’ hereabouts…and killing anyone who comes hunting for us.” He shrugged again, despondently. “If you’ve got any advice, Tuck, I’d like to hear it.”
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br />   The friar nodded, understanding Robin’s frustration. “I don’t have much to offer by way of advice,” he replied. “But you should take heart from the fact these men followed you after the Battle of Boroughbridge, and still trust you to lead them.”

  Robin stayed silent, brooding as he gazed at the black silhouettes of the tall trees, like giant sentinels all around them.

  “Men like John Little and Will Scaflock are no fools,” the friar had a pleasant, persuasive voice and he carried on, fixing his young captain with a knowing look. “Either of them could lead their own gang of men, but they choose to follow you. Look, the rebellion wasn't meant to be – the earl burned Burton and he treated with the Scots.” He waved away Robin's half-hearted protest. “The rumours were true, Lancaster could have crushed the Scots over the years but he always let them escape. Aye, he promised a lot and he probably would have been a better king for the likes of us than Edward ever will be but...maybe it'll turn out to be a blessing that we failed at Boroughbridge. I know it’s hard to believe, with your wife carrying your child and you stuck out here with all of us, but... God will look after you. Never give up hope!”

  Robin was taken aback by the vehemence in Tuck’s voice.

  “Trust me, lad: our Lord has a purpose for you. That much was clear to me from the day I met you. You have to believe in yourself the way these men believe in you.” He spread his arms wide, encompassing the whole outlaw camp. “And they're going to need you now – that bastard Gisbourne will come for us soon...”

  Robin shivered. When they'd been part of the earl's army he'd heard rumours about Sir Guy and the things he'd done. He looked across at Tuck and pushed the king's man from his mind, grinning back at the rosy-cheeked friar who drained the last of the ale in his cup and nodded towards the rest of the gang.

  Despite their defeat in the battle against King Edward’s forces, and their continuing status as outlaws, the men were enjoying themselves tonight. They laughed and sang around the camp-fire, seemingly without a care in the world. Every so often one of them would wave over to him, grinning and raising their mugs in salute.