Wolf's Head (The Forest Lord) by McKay Steven A

Author:McKay, Steven A. [McKay, Steven A.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2013-07-03T22:00:00+00:00

* * *

Although the outlaw’s camp was a fair distance away from Wakefield, it didn’t take Little John, Much and the youngster, Andrew, long to reach the village outskirts.

“All right, lad, thanks for coming to get us. We’ll sort this out now; you take word to Henry everything will be fine.” He ruffled the boy’s hair and handed him a small silver coin, which Andrew took with a grin and loped off towards the fletcher’s house.

Much thought the best place to find Simon Woolemonger would be the local alehouse. This belonged to Alexander Gilbert and was literally more of a house than a tavern or inn.

The outlaws wandered up and peered in the side window. Sure enough, Woolemonger was inside, a mug of ale before him and two friends at the table with him. They were the only people drinking in the alehouse at that time.

The three were joking noisily as if they hadn’t a care in the world, their drunken laughter filtering through the unglazed window loudly, while Gilbert threw them dark looks every so often.

There seemed little point in wasting time. John wanted to get back to camp as soon as possible in case Robin and Allan returned from wherever they’d gone and wondered where everyone was.

He pushed open the door and strode over to the table Woolemonger sat at. The three drinkers looked up indignantly.

“What do you want?” one asked, just before John’s massive fist slammed into his nose, throwing him backwards off his chair in a spray of crimson. The man lay on the ground groaning.

The second of Woolemonger’s friends fumbled at his belt, presumably for some weapon, but Much moved faster and kicked him hard in the face. The combination of excessive ale and the blow to the head was too much for the man, and he collapsed on the floor vomiting noisily. Much gave him another kick and leaned down to growl in his face. “Stay the fuck down, or we’ll come back for you.”Woolemonger knew many tales about Little John and, while his friends had instinctively tried to defend themselves against the outlaws, Woolemonger had simply frozen in fear as he recognised the giant.

“What do you want with me?” he squealed, eyes wide with fright.

John grabbed him by the throat and hauled him out the front door, where a crowd had gathered on hearing the commotion.

Woolemonger tried to free himself, flailing his legs wildly, but Little John punched him hard in the stomach, blasting the breath from the man, before throwing him into the road where he lay, crying and gasping.

There were cheers from the villagers, but John raised his hands for silence.

“You all know why I’m here,” he said loudly. “This piece of shit here has been telling tales about me, to the bailiff. Everyone knows what we do to people who inform on us.”

Woolemonger spluttered a denial, but John wasn’t listening. He looked around the crowd slowly.

“People that cause me, and my outlaw brothers’, trouble…regret it.” With that he pulled his sword from its leather sheath and pointed it at the man on the ground.

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