Outlaw by Angus Donald Read Free Book Online Page B

a man, and yet fearful that I would disappoint him. He had that effect on people, did Robin, as I was to witness many times in the future, something about the way he looked at you made you forget his rough mockery, his hardness, his cruelty, and feel, at that moment, as if you were the most important person in the world to him. It was like a spell, a kind of magic and, as everybody knows, magic is dangerous.
    I told Hugh that Robin wished to see him and made my way through the parlour, the floor of which was now littered with sleeping, snoring men and women, and out to the stable, to make my bed in the straw. As I drifted off to sleep in a warm mound of fodder, I looked again at the lovely white lady’s horse. I dreamed of Marie-Anne.
     
    We were on the road again at dawn the next day, the motley cavalcade clattering out of the gates of the farm compound, oxen roaring, carts creaking, hung-over men cursing the hour, as the cocks were bawling a noisy message about their masculinity to the heavens. Marie-Anne had departed long before the column began lumbering its way north up the forest road. And, catching my eye, she had smiled at me and waved before cantering off on her white mare, flanked by the half a dozen mounted men-at-arms.
    Her departure left me feeling strangely flat. Robin, back in his shabby travelling outfit, rode at the head of our column, in earnest conversation with Hugh and Tuck. At something of a loss, I trudged along alone behind a swaying cart full of household goods, chairs, tables and chests with a wicker chicken coop filled with squawking chickens on the top. A piglet, tied by a rope round its neck to the cart, trotted happily beside me. I felt neglected and low after the excitement of the night before: had I really interrupted my lord at his music-making and joined him and his lady as an equal? It seemed unreal. The reality was not the peacock, glorious in satin and silk, warbling with his lady; the reality was the ragged outlaw at the head of this drab column, trotting along with his rascally followers.
    My mood soon lightened. It was a perfect spring day and the forest was bursting with new life and fresh hope: jewelled butterflies danced in the bright sunlight slanting through the green lattice of branches above us; on either side of the road the forest floor was a gorgeous carpet of bluebells; young coneys raced away from the column’s approach; wood pigeons called to each other: ca-cow-ca, ca-cow-ca, ca-cow-ca . . . and I began to take notice properly of the company in which I journeyed.
    We were about fifty souls in all: Robin, Hugh and Tuck were all mounted and rode at the head of the column under Robin’s simple banner, a black and grey wolf’s head on a white background. The banner was apt: outlaws were known as ‘wolf’s heads’, because they could be killed by anybody, as peasants killed wolves and took their heads. Up and down the column’s length, evenly spaced, were a dozen mounted men-at-arms armed with sword, shield and long spear; and a similar number of squat, hard-looking men on foot carrying big war bows made of yew, with full arrow bags strapped at their waists. Some of the fighting men looked a little grey after too much ale the night before but all were alert; keeping their heads up and scanning the woodland either side of the broad road on which we marched. A dozen paces ahead of me strode John the giant. He was talking to another big man, a blacksmith, I guessed from his thick leather apron and brawny forearms, and periodically John’s great booming laugh would echo over the cavalcade. There was a farrier driving a heavy wagon, a pedlar walking under a great pack of goods, an alewife carting an enormous barrel of beer. There were mothers with babies and young children, older children playing games of tig around the slow-moving wagons, shy-saucy lasses walking proudly beside the bowmen or men-at-arms, cows bellowing and lumbering along tied to carts, sheep being prodded