The Wolf and the Raven Read online

  Robin felt humbled by their friendship, and their faith in him as their leader.

  His eyes grew moist and he looked away from Tuck, wiping the tears with his fingertips. Never give up hope...

  The big friar stood up, and clapped his young leader on the back. “Come on, it’s time you joined in.”

  With a smile of gratitude, Robin followed Tuck back to the fire, and found himself singing and dancing with the rest of the men, his cares, for a while, forgotten.

  At the edge of the fire’s orange glow, Matt Groves stood alone, watching the others enjoying themselves, his expression blacker than the starless sky overhead.

  CHAPTER THREE

  After Robin and the other outlaws had fled the battlefield at Boroughbridge, things had not gone well for the Earl of Lancaster’s forces, or his Marcher allies. They had suffered horrendous casualties from the sustained assault of Andrew Harclay’s longbow men and, in desperation, had managed to obtain an overnight truce but the majority of their remaining soldiers had deserted during the night.

  The rebellion was over.

  In the morning, the earl, along with his other captains, had surrendered to Harclay, who had them manacled and taken by boat to the earl's own castle in Pontefract.

  Thomas had been locked in a cell with his ally, Roger Clifford, 2 Lord of Skipton.

  “What do you think Edward will do with us?” Clifford asked, gasping in pain from the terrible cut in the side he had suffered at Boroughbridge. Before imprisoning him, the king’s men had poured wine on it to clean it, and roughly tied a strip of linen around his torso to stop the bleeding, but the deep wound was beginning to fester and become ever more painful.

  Thomas shrugged, too weak from hunger and dehydration to offer a reply.

  For three days they had languished in the freezing jail underneath the castle. The guards occasionally threw some mouldy bread in to them, and skins filled with cheap, vile tasting wine, but mostly they were left alone in the near total darkness. The cell stank, as they were forced to relieve themselves in the corners, but the mess inevitably spread. There weren’t even any rushes to soak up the filth.

  The earl sat contemplating the irony of being held captive in his own castle. If he’d known this was going to happen he’d have at least had the floors stocked with rushes! He almost smiled at the idea.

  “Do you think he’ll pardon us?” Clifford breathed, gazing at the ceiling which was filthy with years of damp and mould. “We’re too powerful to be held prisoner for long, don’t you think?”

  Lancaster never even offered a shrug this time, his eyes glassy, as if lost in a daydream.

  Both men stirred as the sound of heavy footsteps approached them. Would it be another guard to toss more scraps of food for them to scavenge off the shit-stained floor, like dogs again?

  The massive door, close to four inches thick was flung open, the light from the torches their jailers carried momentarily blinding the captives.

  “You. Up.” It was one of the king’s soldiers, a huge bear of a man with a small but distinctive scar on his upper lip which made him look even more daunting. He was flanked by two other men, not as tall as their captain, but with the enormous arms and shoulders of longbow men. All three wore the king’s heraldic badge of three yellow lions on a red background, and they glared at the earl, watching as the disgraced nobleman weakly tried to stand.

  “Help him.”

  The two shorter men moved into the cell, swearing at the stench, and grasped the wretched earl by the arms, dragging him to his feet effortlessly.

  “Take him.”

  Thomas was half-dragged from the cell, his head spinning so badly he feared he might puke on his two ‘helpers’.

  “Where are you taking him?” Clifford whimpered, but the huge soldier simply slammed the door shut with a thump, throwing the miserable cell into darkness again and leaving the Lord of Skipton to his fate.

  “What about me?” he shouted, his voice cracking as the burning pain in his side almost made him pass out.

  As he was pulled along the draughty corridor the Earl of Lancaster felt sorry for Clifford. His wound was mortal, that much was obvious – the man would be dead in a couple of days even if the king did pardon him.

  Thomas, on the other hand, would be fine once he had something to eat and drink. His mouth watered at the thought of a nice cut of roast pork and a mug of ale.

  Obviously, the king – his cousin – would have to punish him somehow.

  An exorbitant fine perhaps. Christ, maybe even exile. That would be terrible.

  But the earl was of royal blood himself – the Steward of England and the second wealthiest man in the country after Edward himself. He had survived the king’s wrath before, most notably when he had beheaded Edward’s lover Piers Gaveston.

  Yes, he felt pity for his ally Clifford, left to die in a piss-soaked, freezing jail cell, but at least Thomas would be all right.

  He felt sure of it.

  As he was taken into the great hall – his great hall! – Thomas’s confidence faltered. The king sat at the table, with those loyal earls and other magnates that had supported him against the rebels. At Edward’s right hand sat Hugh, the younger Despenser, with a look of malevolent triumph on his face. The Elder Despenser, along with other earls who had remained loyal to the king were also seated at the long table.

  The two soldiers let their charge go at a nod from the scarred giant, and Thomas slumped embarrassingly, and painfully, onto the floorboards, too weak to lift his arms protectively as his face hit the ground.

  He was offered no food or drink, and his manacles remained locked in place on his wrists and ankles, as the king himself stood to list the charges against him.

  In his weakened state he could only crouch on the floor as Edward railed at him.

  “You raised an army against me!”

  After a while, Thomas couldn’t concentrate on what was being said. His head was spinning and he longed to sleep, which seemed such a ridiculous idea that he burst out laughing.

  His laughter stopped a moment later as the king sat down and Sir Henry Despenser stood to proclaim judgement. It took a few seconds, but even in his fragile state of mind the words shocked the earl.

  “Thomas Plantaganet, Earl of Lancaster, Leicester and Derby, you have been found guilty of treason. You are hereby sentenced to death by being hanged, drawn and beheaded.”

  Exhausted and half mad, he looked up at his cousin, King Edward II with a wild stare.

  Then, with tears streaking his filthy cheeks, he burst out laughing again.

  * * *

  “Robin!” The girl's eyes lit up as she saw her husband standing at the door, but, as she looked at him, they welled up with tears and the outlaw took her gently in his massive arms.

  “I know, I know,” he muttered. “The rebellion failed. I'm still a wolf's head. I'm so sorry.”

  They moved inside, locking the door behind them. It was before dawn and the village was mostly silent in the early spring gloom, but Robin didn't want anyone seeing him. He remembered only too well the trouble that had come to Wakefield last year as the law hunted for him and Matilda had been arrested herself as a result.

  “Ah, it's you lad! We thought it was a cat scratching at the door so quietly before sunrise.” The village fletcher, Henry, Matilda's father, smiled warmly at his son-in-law and moved across the small room to grasp him by the hand.

  “It's good to see you,” Mary, Matilda's mother added, reaching up to kiss Robin gently on the cheek. “We were worried...well, when we heard the king's men had beaten the earl's forces and were hunting you all down.”

  Robin nodded sadly. “We had no chance in the end. I ordered the lads to run before Harclay's men got close enough to catch us. It felt like a betrayal, running like that, but we were done for.”

  “You did the right thing,” the fletcher said. “The Earl of Lancaster should have made more of a fight of it instead of throwing away so many lives needlessly.
The villages hereabouts have lost a lot of fathers and sons. The good Lord knows what'll happen when the harvest's to be planted.”

  Robin waved a hand dismissing Henry's fears. “The king might be a fool, but I don't think he'll let the people starve just to teach a few peasants and yeomen a lesson. He's not that vindictive. He'll probably hang a few of the rebel leaders to make an example of them, but the earl is too wealthy for the king to do much.”

  “You think this will all just die down?” Matilda led Robin by the hand to the small table the family kept by the wall and bade him sit and eat some of the porridge she'd just ladled out for him.

  “Will seems to think so,” he replied, tucking into the warm food gratefully. “And Will understands these things a lot better than I ever will. We're going to be in even more danger than we were before for a while, though, until the king's men flush out the rest of the rebels. We'll be all right though,” he smiled reassuringly at the worried look on Matilda's face. “We know how to hide in the forest, you know that. It's those other lads I feel sorry for.”

  “Hopefully you're right,” Henry said, “and this dies down quickly, so things get back to normality, although it's been said this Guy of Gisbourne has been ordered to hunt you down” –

  “Forget him,” Robin broke in, not wanting Matilda to be alarmed by talk of the king's bounty hunter. “Me and the lads know how to look after ourselves in the forest.”

  The fletcher threw his tunic around his shoulders and nodded at Robin. “I hope so. Now, I have to get to work. It was good to see you, son.”

  “You too,” the outlaw agreed warmly. “I won't come back around like this again, not for a while. I don't want to place you in any danger.”

  Mary gave the seated man another kiss on the cheek. “I have to nip out to get some things from the baker. You look after yourself, Robin.”

  Matilda's parents waved goodbye and left the young couple by themselves. Matilda looked almost shyly at her husband, who she hadn't seen for weeks, and he gazed back fondly, noting how she absent-mindedly stroked her swollen belly.

  “How is...it?” he asked awkwardly, flushing slightly at the girl's laughter.

  “'It' is fine. I can feel kicking now, especially at night. We've got a little fighter in here.” She stood up and came over to stand beside her young husband, holding out her hand. “Come on, we should make the most of the time. I've missed you.”

  They made love, passionately but hurriedly, for fear of Matilda's mother returning, then Robin kissed the girl softly in farewell, rubbing his hand affectionately across her tummy.

  “Do you have any names yet?”

  Matilda smiled down at the bump. “I like Mary, if it's a wee girl.”

  Robin nodded. “That's perfect. Mary. I'll go with that.” He eyed her belly and returned her grin, placing an arm affectionately around her shoulders. “What if it's a boy?”

  The girl shrugged. “I'm not sure. I like Arthur. Or maybe Edward.”

  “Arthur, that sounds good,” the outlaw replied. “But I'm not so keen on naming our child after a man that's sent a bounty-hunter to kill me.”

  “What about Adam then?” Matilda smiled impishly at him.

  “That's even worse!”

  They held each other in close again, smiling and imagining a future where they could both live freely, watching the life that was growing inside Matilda become a child and then an adult.

  “I will visit again when I can,” Robin told her, pulling away reluctantly, “but this new bounty-hunter of the king's might turn out to be another bastard like Adam Gurdon so I won't place you or the baby in any danger.”

  She smiled up at him and squeezed his buttocks playfully. “Don't make it too long,” she warned. “Pregnant women have needs too, and I've been told they get even stronger urges as the baby grows.”

  “I'll think of you at night when I'm in the greenwood,” he told her, his blue eyes drinking in the sight of her and committing it to memory.

  “Get going, then,” she giggled. “I love you.”

  “I love you too, both of you. And I still intend to keep the promise I made you last year: I will earn a pardon, somehow, and be a proper husband and father.”

  He hurried out into the street and, with a last, longing wave, disappeared into the shadows cast by the early morning sun.

  Matilda sighed as she watched him go, missing him already. At least I'm not alone, she thought, holding her belly and giving thanks to God.

  * * *

  A week passed after what was being called the Battle of Boroughbridge, and the outlaws had settled comfortably back into their old routine. The soldiers hunting them had failed to find them. Although Sir Guy of Gisbourne was a hugely experienced bounty-hunter, he simply didn’t know the forests of Yorkshire well enough yet. He had hired local guides, and was creating a detailed mental map of the area in his head, but Robin and his men were able to stay a step ahead of their pursuers easily enough.

  Of course, Gisbourne wasn’t just hunting Robin’s gang now; he also had to find the dozens of defeated rebels who had taken refuge in the greenwood after Boroughbridge. Although those other rebels were diverting attention away from his own men, Robin had grave fears about the presence of so many lawless men roaming the region. While his gang tended to steal from the rich nobles and clergymen who passed their way, these other rebels were apparently happy enough to rob from anyone they could – peasants, yeomen and villeins, as well as those much better off. When Robin’s men visited the outlying villages for supplies, they heard worse tales: rebels accused of carrying off livestock from poor families who might only own, and depend on, one or two sheep or hens; drunken men wandering through villages stealing from traders, and viciously assaulting any who complained; even accusations of rape and murder.

  As a result, Robin and his friends found it difficult to get the supplies they relied on from the surrounding villages, as the locals became more defensive and began to arm themselves.

  Unless the locals knew the outlaw well, they would be chased off with the promise of violence.

  Of course, everyone in Yorkshire knew of Little John, thanks to his great height – near seven feet tall, and built like a bear with a shaggy brown beard to match – so he ended up having to collect the outlaws’ supplies whenever they needed anything they couldn’t catch or make themselves: butter, salted beef and pork, fruit, bread and eggs although those were scarce in winter.

  “I’m fed up with this,” John grumbled as he returned from Bichill one afternoon, dropping a pile of supplies on the ground by the camp fire. “I feel like a woman, doing everyone’s shopping for them. The sooner the rest of the rebels are caught, the better!”

  Will Scarlet gave a loud laugh and came over to stand in front of John, grinning. “Hark at her! I thought you enjoyed shopping.” He tugged at the sleeve of the giant’s worn old brown cloak. “You always put on your fanciest dress for it.”

  Little John lunged at Scarlet, but Will danced back out of reach, gesturing the big man to come ahead, while Robin and the rest of the men watched the entertainment with broad smiles.

  “I’m glad you all find it so funny,” Friar Tuck grunted, dropping a sack of loaves on the ground beside John’s supplies. Tuck had gone to Bichill with John, but he was dismayed at the stories they’d heard there.

  “These other outlaws have no respect for anyone. Someone should stop them.”

  “It’s nothing to do with us,” Robin replied, glancing up from his log by the fire, where he sat stirring a big cauldron of pottage.

  The men muttered in agreement, but Tuck fixed his young leader with a glare. “Will you still be saying that when they rape someone in Wakefield?”

  Robin shook his head, looking away from the clergyman. “What would you have us do, Tuck? We’re outlaws ourselves. We can’t go around Barnsdale hunting down other rebels. All we can do is hope we meet these men and they join up with us.”

  The men shouted agreement at that, but Tuck shook his
head. “These men aren’t like us. They’re desperate – starving.”

  Matt Groves snorted. “Desperate? I’ve been an outlaw for years, friar! Men don’t get much more desperate than me.”

  “What’s that in your hand then, Matt?” the portly friar demanded, gesturing towards the gently steaming bowl of pottage in Groves’ right hand. “All of us here have food, money, warm clothing and a loyal friend at our side to defend us if the foresters find us.”

  Matt waved a dismissive hand and turned his back on Tuck with a scowl.

  “You might think you’re desperate,” Tuck stated, looking around at the other men, his eyes finally meeting Robin’s. “But I fear we’re going to find out all too soon what truly desperate men will do when they’re trapped in these woods with nowhere to run.”

  * * *

  Guy of Gisbourne had been tired and irritable before he and his men had, purely by chance, stumbled upon the group of rebels hiding in the forest.

  They had been searching an area of Barnsdale where reports suggested some of the insurgents were camping. They were on foot, since horses were no use for moving between the dense undergrowth and, after much of the day walking and stumbling over fallen logs and trailing plants Gisbourne was about ready to call a halt to the search for the day.

  Then his second-in-command, and friend of many years, Nicholas Barnwell, a bald man with a disconcerting gaze, had caught the sweet scent of wood smoke. He held up a hand, motioning for silence and sniffed the air again, as the unmistakable smell of roasting meat came to them. The soldiers remained silent, senses straining as they tried to glean whatever information they could about the unseen cook.

  A faint laugh carried to them through the trees and Gisbourne nodded to his sergeant, motioning his men – twenty five of them – to make their way towards the source of the sounds and smells.