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

Excerpts #4

© Copyright David Cook 2014

Journey to the Vale of the Lost

I saddled my new horse that I had named Alfred in honour of the great king that Aaron often talked about, kissed Mary goodbye and rode east.

Heavy clouds had come in the night and the dawn greeted me with a thin cold rain that blew into my face. I pulled my hood closer but it did not help. Not before long I was soaked right through to my bones. The road was heavily rutted, weed and moss strewn and stretched away to a dank wood where trees dripped and no birds sang. The further I rode east the quicker my spirits sank. Even Alfred, seemingly a placid beast, was affected with nerves for he seemed to whimper until I talked to him or patted his head for reassurance. It was an eerie and an oppressing place. I touched my swords pommel to try to reassure my fading confidence and felt for the sprig of basil underneath my coat which offered protection against madness or those possessed by the Devil. I would find Elizabeth, I told myself this over and over. I would find her in that Vale of madness and bring her home safe and unharmed.

By mid-morning I had emerged into a series of valleys, where a pale-grey sky dotted with charcoal-coloured clouds threatened more rain. I took directions from a toothless drover in Chesterfield which was a flourishing market town, and headed across the green Derbyshire dales where the wind rippled the long grasses and the puddles in the ruts. I let Alfred crop whilst I ate my provisions of cheap dried fish, some hard bread and a skin of water that I pretended was ale.

I followed the highways east over the wide River Derwent across steep-sided valley’s shouldered with thickets of deep-green wood’s that edged gently down to the tumbling waterway. The furthest hills and high crests were drenched with shafts of sun light; the fields shone rich gold and pale yellow. In the distance the horizon was tinted purple. After my meagre meal I took Alfred down tracks and sunken roads lined with blackthorn, dog-roses, juniper and honeysuckle. Bees stirred in the autumn winds that blew fragrant and sweet. Fieldfares and wagtails flew and hopped on the paths in front of me, chirping and luring me away from their nests.

I passed fenced off leas and protected by ditches where villeins of this estate were reaping, gathering, binding, stacking and carrying their sheaves of wheat, barley and rye back to piles for counting and eventual storing in barns ready for threshing and winnowing. Men with hard faces watched me with suspicion as I waved them a cheerful greeting, happy that the back-breaking days of working in the fields was over for me.  I gave a long-legged girl of seventeen a grin – just as Robin would have done - as she sliced wheat with a sickle. Her task along with the other women reapers was to slice the crop halfway or more up the stalk and lay them down for the binders who worked in echelon behind them to tie the spears into sheaves. The next field contained barley which was mown with scythes, close to the ground. A good team could clear two acres a day. I looked on in admiration for the land was steep and rocky, but full of large woodlands, plump riverside meadows and swaying dales.

A church crowned the top of the hill to my left, a large newly cut cross cast long shadows towards me. There was a drover’s track that led across a pasture to where I could see the roofs of the homes, cattle byres, sheds and pens. As always, my thoughts turned to Clanfield. I stared at the homesteads and tears pricked at my eyes. I remembered my father proudly showing me the threshing flails that he had repaired over the winter, of the plough newly sharpened for the ploughing season that started on the first Monday after Epiphany. There was always a plough race, which my father won three times. He hated mowing, but my mother enjoyed it along with winnowing, which I helped her with my brother and two sisters separate the grain from the chaff and weevils that always infested the crops.

I don’t think I meant much to my father. He never had any time for me and he never once told me that he loved me. But I wonder if any fathers tell their children that they do? Especially sons? I know my mother loved me for she said I was her darling. But all I remember of my father is a stern face staring at me with disapproval as he whipped and beat me like an unruly hound. I don’t remember him beating my brothers.

I journeyed still east where in a confusing network of paths and roads where the land changed into rocky hills and broken moorland.  I passed great weed-strewn spoil heaps of a mine dating back to the Romans. The land here was as silent as a grave and I imagined I could hear the ghostly voices of the miners amongst the huge grey heaps. I hurried Alfred on.

I questioned a granite-faced shepherd who was resting on a huge boulder the way to Buxton. At first I didn’t understand him because his accent was so thick, but he jumped down, tentatively showing me the ford to cross the River Wye into limestone uplands, lush dales and jagged gorges. Damsel flies, the biggest I had ever perceived, edged the waters looking for prey and plump trout swam in the cool clear waters. I let Alfred drink whilst I scanned the horizon for the Great Tor where the supposed Vale might be, however the land was nothing but a series of impassable crags that stretched all around making it difficult to locate it.

By late evening I had become lost. I cursed myself for my ill luck, and wondered whether it was perhaps the work of a sorcerer that impeded my quest. I tied Alfred to an alder and climbed the nearest grassy slope that was steeper than I first thought. My muscles burned by the time I reached the summit. I looked around. It was breathtaking. I felt as though I was a bird gliding above the earth, the valley seemed to bow before me as though I was a king. The final bar of orange sunlight allowed me to see a towering rampart to the north. It was a fortress of earth and rock, crested with trees. I guessed that was the Great Tor and picked out a track possibly that a horse could use without the worry of breaking its legs or throwing its rider that wound its way towards it.

But for now I had to rest.

This hasn't scratched the surface of Ben's life with Robin Hood. I hope you liked this, please do leave a vote. Thank you.