Excerpts from The Wolfshead:Outlaw (A story of Robin Hood)

© Copyright David Cook 2014

Waylay

We kicked open doors and flung window shutters open. Our men appeared behind walls and fences, arrows drawn to the mark.

Robin blew a single note on his horn and suddenly two dozen arrows with their pale goose feathers whistled across the road and slashed into the horsemen. Men dropped and some were plucked out of their saddles by the ghost-like missiles. Horses reared and whinnied. Those that survived the first volley tried to break free in the lull, but by the time the first bodies had fallen, our second volley found new targets and Retford’s roadside resembled the blood-red of the river that gave the village its name. Some riders managed to avoid the sheaths and yanked their mounts back towards the ford. But Robin had already guessed they would try to go back and six archers blocked their path and killed the handful of men.

A brave few dismounted to fight on foot and they were dangerous adversaries. They were trained killers, mailed and hefted long bladed swords. Nevertheless we ran to face them and a mercenary with blood streaming down his face challenged me as we reached two houses where from a doorway a dog barked viciously.

The blade flashed as it caught the sun’s glare, which I parried before taking a step backwards. The mercenary spat at me over the rim of his shield, which he followed by shouting a string of obscenities in his foreign tongue. I couldn’t understand him, but I knew he was cursing me. He punched his shield forward hoping to stun, and then followed it with a chop that threatened to cut me in half. But I saw the attack in his eyes and stepped back again so that the shield boss battered the air harmlessly and I met his sword with mine above my head. The blades clanged like cracked bells and he withdrew it slowly hoping to slice open my fingers but the cross-hilt protected my knuckles. He snarled at his failed attempt, spat at me again. He feinted with a thrust to my left, took a step back, then rammed his sword at my face. I managed to parry it only to stumble on the leg of a wounded bowman who screamed and suddenly my foe had disarmed me. He grinned through a blood-stained face as he stepped to eviscerate me. He sprang forward and I twisted to the house, slamming the window shutter into his face. The wood exploded and he staggered back with a heavily lacerated face. He did not see Little John appear to his left, huge and glowering, who then hammered the man down with his massive two-handed sword. More blood jetted from his broken nose and mouth as he sank to his knees. My knife sliced once and he was dead.

Deceive

I chose the spot to wheel Ghost around for the return journey. This would test my luck. I gave a silent prayer. My stomach throbbed from nerves, my hands were cold and clammy and my mouth was as dry as old parchment. Men were running towards me, the dull glint of armour and weapons shone in the weak sun. I kicked Ghost forward to the gallop in time to see the blur of bolts and hear the crack of loaded crossbows shooting at me. A spearman tried to tangle Ghost’s legs, but I was going too fast. Men armed with swords tried to slash Ghost’s face, but I had to get their notice, their blood boiling, so I shouted, ‘I’m Robin Hood! I’m the Wolfshead!’ Men clambered to their saddles in the hope of cutting me off, but Ghost glided past outstretched hands hoping to pull me off to take me across the ford and towards Retford where death waited in the shadows.

Infiltrate

Robin led us along the wall and knowing where the ditch was level with debris we ran across it and up the steep grass hill. It was slippery from the rain, but this time no one slipped, but cursed instead from the incline. My bow felt tight around my chest constricting my breathing and my sword banged heavily against my hip. I could smell human dung wafting and mingling with the smoke from the cooking fires. A man shouted and I looked over my shoulder in alarm only to see him staggering from the barracks, shouting drunkenly at another who had fallen over. A dog barked at their folly.