Chapter II
Gathering the escort took little time. The three men-at-arms, the falconer, and Guy rode out of the main gate when the sun was just shy of its peak. It would be up to the falconer to make a guess at where the bird had headed. The last report had been north, which did little to narrow it down.
The falcon master was middle-aged, rotund, and seemed flustered by the order to join Guy's party. He appeared nervous about asking Guy anything, but the need to allay, or confirm, his fears overcame his apprehension. He encouraged his mount to ride abreast of Guy's horse until he worked up his courage to speak.
"Sir Guy, the Sheriff...he...did he...?" The man stammered trying to find a way to verbalize what he most feared. Guy's face remained impassive, so he tried again. "What kind of...mood was he in when he mentioned my services were required?" His face had a tension to it, as if he were expecting a blow. Guy looked at the man with a dispassionate smirk.
"Vexed," was his short reply. As they rode, Guy tossed him the Sheriff's personal glove. "A gift to aid your cause." The falcon master caught it somewhat clumsily. Guy did not envy his position, since the blame for the bird's behavior would land squarely on its trainer, and there would be little hope for the falconer if the thing did not return. It mattered not that it was the Sheriff who had misjudged the bird's condition for hunting before releasing it.
Guy could not be certain the Sheriff would assuage his disappointment by making the falconer pay with his life, but there was a good chance. Either that, or Vaisey would devise something worse than death. He drank in other people's pain like some men consumed wine. In contrast, Guy used pain only as a tool. He found it was not the most effective weapon. Ultimately, it was a waste of energy compared to fear. As long as you could keep up a certain concentration of terror, you could usually get a significant level of compliance. Resorting to pain meant you failed to mentally subjugate your victim, and they gained a slight upper hand. Not that this would save their hides, but it meant it would take more effort to achieve the results needed. But the Sheriff had little interest in such equations. The pain of others gave him a heady joy that was truly indecent.
While he was speculating on the fate of the falcon master, his horse had slowed to maintain its pace with the falconer's, who had nearly stopped his mount, and was scanning the sky over the open field. Seeing nothing, he pressed on toward the forest. Guy and the soldiers followed without a word. Three quarters of the way to the edge of Sherwood, they caught up with the scouts who had been deployed to keep an eye on the bird when it flew in the wrong direction. They had lost sight of it as it entered the forest. Guy instructed the scouts to fall in with his party, so that he now had three heavily armed soldiers, and two bowmen at his disposal. All of which would be useless in catching a two pound bird alive.
The distance between them and the wall of Sherwood diminished swiftly. How they would find the bird in the tangle, Guy could not imagine. But the falconer seemed to have some idea where to look—or was bravely pretending to in order to prolong his life—so they skirted the treeline. Guy supposed he was looking for the same things a falcon would; likely hiding places for prey, or other enticements for a predator to be drawn to. The man had raised the bird since it was a juvenile, honing its skill as a hunter. The Sheriff flew it once in a while, but the work of making it fit for use was done by the falconer, who might die if his understanding of the bird's nature was not solid enough to entreat its return.
Guy's horse trotted on, and he dutifully scanned the trees while he rode, but his mind wandered. The week had been uneventful, especially considering it was less than a fortnight since Robin and his outlaws had returned. When last he had seen Hood, Guy was pinned to the door of the inner keep by the rogue's arrows. He figured it was over for him then. The hatred in Robin's eyes burned as much as the knife slash he had etched across Guy's jaw. He despised Robin immensely, all the more so because the outlaw had chosen not to kill him. It was not pity, nor mercy, that kept Robin from ending it then. It was a fierce desire to watch Guy's suffering, rather than letting the Devil take him. Perhaps Robin was more like the Sheriff than he ever knew.
Robin Hood escaped that day, but Guy hardly cared at the time. The Sheriff could not be said to share that feeling. He had allowed Guy to wallow in his grief since returning from Acre, but he was beginning to find it tedious, and he was considering whether or not to discard his lieutenant in whatever way was easiest. When the Sheriff revealed this bit of information to him, Guy had snapped, making it clear as a winter's sky what he really thought of his lord. He knew with each word of dissension, he forged a nail in his own coffin, and afterward, he expected guards to come for him. No one openly scorned the Sheriff and got away with it. But Vaisey let it go, and even seemed glad that Guy had a bit of spark left. It was a strange revelation, that the Sheriff would tolerate such long-withheld honesty. It should have made him feel more bold, but it worked in the opposite way. He felt more trapped than ever. Nothing he could do would release him from the Sheriff's expectations. Guy knew he should have left then, but he did not. He did not dare ask himself why he chose to remain. Not yet.
The call of the falconer brought him back from his thoughts. Against all likelihood, the man had spotted his charge. The bloody thing was sitting in the boughs of a tall oak. The falconer dismounted, and walked about twenty paces away from the party. Extending his arm—upon which was the Sheriff's glove—he gave the sharp whistle for return. Although it was at some distance, Guy could clearly see the bird turn its head, but otherwise it remained immobile. Guy and the soldiers stayed in their saddles. The falconer lowered his arm, then extended it again, trying the signal a second time. Out of the corner of his eye, Guy caught one soldier nudging another, presumably jesting over the predicament of the falconer.
The day was a hot one, and the horses were already lowering their heads, beginning to seek out fodder in the dusty ground. Guy pulled back on the reins slightly, reminding his mount that it was not allowed to slack off. The horse performed valiantly under pressure, but the rest of the time it was impatient and bad tempered. Its disposition had not improved during his sojourn to the Holy Land. He wondered if it was because it had missed him. More likely, it was furious to see that he still lived.
The falcon was showing no sign of complying with the request to return. Guy's usual tactics of intimidation were lost on a wild bird, so he had nothing to do but wait. His own impatience for the falconer to succeed was growing. There were other tasks that needed to be overseen before the day was over, and this jaunt was not on the agenda.
A bee drowned by, followed by another, and he watched as they met in the air, tumbled over each other, then flew off in different directions. One of the soldiers' horses stamped and backed away from the treeline, agitated. The man calmed it, but Guy was suddenly alert to the possibility they were being watched. He said nothing, maintaining a bored look while the falconer parlayed with the bird, but he listened more intently to the surrounding forest.
The falconer was sending out a lure in hopes the raptor's instinct would supersede its wayward will. A partial dove carcass on a tether was spun in a wide arc around the falconer. Everyone watched the falcon. The falcon watched everyone, cocked its head at the lure, and ruffled its feathers.
Minutes passed, and although Guy had been listening for any sound from the forest, he heard nothing but insect chatter. He dismissed the horse's agitation for what it probably was—equine paranoia. Every horse had its own annoying quirks. Perhaps that one was afraid of leaves falling in the woods.
The summer sun was blazing down, and he could feel sweat trickling down his back. His heavy tunic was not exactly carefree summer garb, but it was better than the uniform of the men-at-arms, who were dressed in heavy mail, black cloaks, and helmets. He knew they were suffering silently, but would never let on for fear of his wrath. He also knew one of the keys to leading men was making sure they had something to do. They could forget their complaints as long as they had purpose. But there was little to do on the edges of the wood. He ordered them to dismount. At least they could find the scattered shade better.
Guy remained saddled, and moved his horse closer to the falconer. The lure had not achieved success so far, and he could see sweat on the falconer's brow. It was second nature to verbally threaten people into doing what he wanted, but he held back this time, allowing his proximity to hint that the man was running out of time. The falconer looked up pointedly at Guy as if to say "Yes, I know," and returned to his horse to retrieve something from a sack tied to the saddle. Guy was left to stare up at the rebellious bird.
When he thought about it, they were not much different, he and the falcon. They both killed for the Sheriff, and they were both too dependent to strike out on their own. He wondered which was the bigger fool. The bird, who killed prey, then gave it up for a few scraps of meat, or himself, who had given up whatever remained of his soul to follow the path to power. What powers the Sheriff bestowed upon him were not far from scraps themselves. But the bird had finally wised up and flew away. He envied the creature, and considered doing the same, come what may.
The falconer returned, having retrieved a live pigeon from the sack. Its body was wrapped in a leather band with small hempen loops covering it, but its wings were free to move naturally. The bird had a long tether attached to it which the falconer staked to the ground. Guy surmised the loops would act like snares if the falcon attempted to take the bait. He also assumed that, upon release, the pigeon would struggle frantically to get away, thus drawing in the raptor's attention. In actuality, once freed, it bobbed its head several times, pecked at something on the ground, and sat down. The falcon picked at its jesses, then preened a wing feather, underwhelmed by the sacrifice they were offering it. Guy sighed, and slumped a bit in his saddle. This was going to take the whole day.
His resignation was interrupted by a shout from one of his men. He jerked on the reins and his horse wheeled round dutifully. What he witnessed was just what he had feared, and he cursed himself for not listening to his instinct. That bloody turncoat, Allan a Dale, was throwing himself into the saddle of one his soldiers' mounts, while the soldier in question was struggling to extricate himself from a weighed net. The other men had drifted away from their mounts before the shout went up, and had to rush back toward the horses.
The man closest to Allan's mount tried to grab the horse's bridle. Allan held tight to the reins while digging his heels sharply into the beast. But instead of leaping into a gallop, the horse reared up, lashing out with its hooves. Allan clung on, but the soldier did not fare so well. A hoof clipped the man across the head, and he went down, while the horse fell to all fours again. Allan was struggling to get the animal to go in the direction he wanted before the soldiers could surround him. Just in time, he managed to force his mount into the woods.
Guy was not about to let Allan steal a horse. He had not forgotten about the Sheriff's orders, but catching Allan would likely be higher on his priority list as well. Of the four men that remained conscious, he shouted to two of them to go after Allan, and two to remain with the wounded man and the falconer.
"Stay here with him!" he shouted at one of the bowmen. "If the bird goes anywhere besides back to that glove, shoot it!" The falcon master looked like he had just been threatened with death, but Guy did not care. His sense of camaraderie with the fowl only extended so far. If he could not escape this place, neither would it! He spurred his horse, and followed in the wake of the soldiers.
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Allan had a head start on his pursuers. Guy's horse caught up to the soldiers swiftly enough, and they let him take the lead. So far, Allan was following a game path, and the way was not too overgrown to ride swiftly. The summer foliage was a dense green wall rising on each side of the trail as they rode through Sherwood. The horses leapt over fallen tree limbs, and the riders ducked as sharp branches whisked overhead. Suddenly, Allan disappeared from view, and Guy heard his horse go crashing into the undergrowth to the side of the path. An indistinct shout went up, answered by another. Only moments later, Guy and the soldiers came to the spot on the path Allan had vacated. Not far off the path, he could make out Allan, still mounted, and another on foot, garbed in an earthy brown cloak, scrabbling toward him.
"Take them!" Guy shouted what, to him, seemed a pretty obvious order. The men-at-arms crashed into the brush, while the man on foot attempted to climb onto the back of Allan's horse. He had wide eyes, and was wearing a cap over his blonde hair. Guy recognized the figure now. It was that imbecile that followed Robin everywhere—Much.
Allan had certainly picked the wrong horse to steal. It wanted nothing to do with multiple riders, and reared up again, causing Much to abort his mounted escape. The soldiers reached Allan's position, and Much was cut off from him.
Much shouted, "Go!" then ran like a hare further into the warren of the woods. The soldier who had come up alongside Allan tried to engage him, but he was not interested in fighting, only fleeing. He ducked a sword strike, and kicked his horse into a gallop.
The other soldier was about to go after Much, but Guy checked him. Pointing in the direction Allan had gone, he shouted to the soldiers, "After him! Kill him if you have to, but bring him back!" He would see Allan's wavy-haired head on a pike before the day was through!
Guy urged his horse in the direction Much had taken. It was not hard to follow his trail, littered as it was with broken branches. But the forest was always kinder to those on foot, and Much used his familiarity with the area to make up for his lack of speed. Guy's horse was used to trampling through bracken and uneven terrain, but that only meant it would not balk if asked to do something dangerous. Guy had to find ways around many of the areas that Much cut through so the horse would not bravely break its leg.
Spidery oak branches hung low over the ground. As it passed through them, the horse lowered its head to protect its eyes, and Guy had to duck low as he felt the tree's fingers raking harmlessly across his back. Soon, he came across the cloak Much had been wearing. It was hopelessly snagged in a thorn bush, and probably cost Much a few seconds trying to extricate himself from it. He was not wrong. He spotted his quarry at a clearing ahead. Much halted, but Guy continued on, hoping to catch him in his hesitation. Much looked over his shoulder once, then lowered himself down from what Guy just realized was a very steep incline. Slowing his horse, he stopped at the point Much had dropped out of sight. Looking straight down from the crest of the hill, he could see Much struggling to find a path down the rocks, using the roots poking out of the ground to slow his descent.
From his vantage on top of the hillock, Guy saw the remains of an old abbey below. Presumably, Much hoped to hide out there. Guy was not about to leave his horse to venture down the hillside the way Much was going. He did not need to lose two horses and a bird in one day. But even taking the long way around, he could probably cut Much off before he reached the bottom. He turned his horse, and followed the crest of the hill along its downward direction.
The descent was rockier than expected, and was taking him in the opposite direction of where he ultimately needed to be. Once back on level ground, he turned to follow the base of the steep hillside toward where he figured Much should be. He could just make out the figure as it slipped and skidded the last few yards to the ground. Much did not waste time to see if he was being followed, but ran in the direction of the abbey. Guy's horse thundered along the open ground in pursuit.
Much was only a hundred yards away, but the man was almost to the outer gate of the ruined abbey. Guy could feel the rush of adrenaline as the hunt was about to be closed. Whether the quarry was animal, or human, it was all the same. The urge to catch that which sought to escape was natural in most predators, and he was no exception.
Guy unsheathed his sword, and spurred his horse to overtake Much, before he could bolt like a weasel into the ruins, making Guy's work more difficult. He could see Much finally chance a look back, and his eyes widened at the sight of the dark horse charging toward him. But in another moment, he was past the partially unhinged gate, tearing toward the door of the church itself. If it was closed and barred, it would be his last disappointment, because Guy was not going to let the thieving stoat live after years of nipping away unchecked.
But luck, as it often was, was with the outlaw. Guy slowed his horse to keep from breaking both their necks running into the crumbling abbey wall, and as he did so, he could see Much slip through broken oak doors only twenty yards away. He growled in frustration. He could either pursue him further, or leave him, collect his soldiers, and return to the castle. It would not look good if he failed to catch the outlaw, much less get the damned bird back.
Ultimately, pride tipped the scale in favor of pursuit, and he dismounted, tossing a loop of the reins around the crumbling iron gate. As long as he could flush his prey out of the ruins, Much would most likely try to surrender. But Guy just wanted the followers of Robin Hood to die. He would accept Much's surrender, then kill him without ceremony. Why the Sheriff always had to drag things out with pomp and ceremony was beyond him. He was not going to leave it to the Sheriff to decide this time.