Horehound stretched out his hands towards the fire. He was deeply worried: their larder of salted meat was depleted; game was becoming increasingly rare and difficult to hunt, the prospect of plunder even rarer. Horehound’s band was growing older, weaker; sometimes the temptation to leave them and go deeper into the forest was almost irresistible.
‘What shall we do?’
Milkwort and Angelica joined him at the fire.
‘We’ll fetch the priest.’
‘No, I don’t mean that!’
Horehound could feel his companion’s anger, whilst Angelica’s broad, smooth face was deeply troubled.
‘You know what I mean.’ Milkwort gathered up his hair, tying it more securely behind his head with a piece of string. ‘Here we are, in the heart of the forest, in the depths of winter, three of our companions ill, and we have very little food.’ He threw a stick on the fire. ‘We’ve even forgotten our names, hiding behind those of wild herbs. We are outlaws, wolfsheads!’ He hawked and spat. ‘But the law doesn’t afear me, the sheriff doesn’t give a damn about us; what frightens me is winter. It’s not yet Yuletide but we’re so short of food we’re going to starve. I don’t think,’ Milkwort added bitterly, ‘we should have threatened the King’s man.’
‘We didn’t threaten,’ Horehound snapped. ‘If we are going to hang, let’s hang for venison, for stealing some clothes from a merchant, but not the slaughter of young maids.’
‘There was another killed,’ Angelica intoned mournfully, shifting the hair from her face. She gazed back into the cave where Foxglove was gasping, fighting for his life. ‘I understand that.’ She jabbed her thumb back at the dying man. ‘But not the brutal slaying of young maids?’
‘You saw her?’ Horehound was eager to change the subject and distract Milkwort.
‘Yes, I told you, I was out near the pathway gathering nuts and whatever else I could find for the pot. I saw the girl in the cemetery. She was standing by the grave, she’d taken some holly, red with berries.’
‘Yes, but did you see the one who was killed?’
‘I saw no one else.’
‘Have you seen any strangers?’ Horehound asked.
‘I think I have, mere glimpses.’
‘There’s none of them about,’ Milkwort scoffed. ‘No peddlers or chapmen, only the foreigners at the tavern. Cas . . . tel . . .’
‘Castilians,’ Horehound corrected him, proud of remembering what Master Reginald had told him. ‘They are from Castile; it’s in Spain.’
‘Where is that?’
‘It’s part of France,’ Horehound blustered. ‘I think it’s part of France, somewhere near the Middle Sea. They’ve come here to buy wool. They travelled from Dover.’
‘Did you see them?’ Milkwort asked. ‘We could have stopped them.’
Horehound wagged a finger. ‘Don’t be stupid. There are five of them, all armed. Above all, they are foreigners. You know what happens if foreigners are robbed? They complain to the sheriff, or to their own prince, and as fast as Jack jumps on Jill, the sheriff’s men will be in the forest, hunting us like deer. You heard what happened to Pigskin and his group? Moved further east they did, attacked some foreigners coming out of Dover.’
The group fell silent. They all knew what had happened to Pigskin and his companions: hanged at the crossroads as a warning to others.
‘If we don’t get the priest soon,’ Milkwort broke the silence, ‘old Foxglove will be joining Pigskin.’
‘Nah,’ Horehound disagreed. ‘Pigskin’s in Hell, a killer he was, not like Foxglove; the worst thing he did was knock a man on the back of the head. But you’re right,’ he sighed, ‘let’s go.’
They left the camp, stumbling through the snow, cursing and muttering as they were cut by gorse whilst the snow resting on branches above sprinkled down to soak their clothes. Horehound drew his cowl closer about his head. They went in single file, Angelica bringing up the rear so that she could follow in their footsteps.
Horehound was truly frightened. The forest was silent, a bad sign at night, as if the freezing cold and snow had smothered all life and sound. Everything had changed: no longer the familiar trees and bushes; no longer the telltale stones placed where the trackway turned; no different colours; nothing but blackness broken only by the blind brightness of the snow. Horehound felt as if he was in a dream. He paused to see where he was. Concerned at becoming lost, he ignored Milkwort’s protest and led them out of the forest on to the trackway which snaked through the trees. Eventually they left this, going back into the protection of the trees, following a secure route which would lead them to the Tavern in the Forest.
Horehound, summoning up his courage, knew they would have to cross that glade. When they reached it they all paused; even in the poor light they could see that macabre shape hanging from an outstretched branch, moving slightly as if it had a life of its own. Horehound crossed himself and moved on. He felt hungry, slightly weak, and even as he approached the pathway leading to the tavern, his sharp sense of smell caught the drifting odours of cooked meats and freshly baked bread. His mouth watered and his belly grumbled, and he decided that he could not let such an opportunity slip. He gestured to his companions to keep silent, and they slipped behind the trees at the rear of the tavern. Summoning up their strength they scaled the curtain wall, dropping quietly into the yard below and scrambling down the manure heap piled high between the two stretches of stables. The dogs on their leashes across the cobbled yard were immediately roused and, despite the cold, strained on their ropes, lips curled, barking raucously. This was as far as Horehound would go. He watched the rear door of the tavern open, the welcome sliver of light, smelled the odours of cooking, nigh irresistible, drifting across.
‘Who’s there?’ Master Reginald, a crossbow in one hand, stood in the light. Behind him two tap boys grasped stout cudgels.
‘Only Horehound, Master Reginald,’ the outlaw called across. ‘Foxglove is dying, we need food and drink.’
‘And what do you have to trade?’ Master Reginald came forward, shouting at the dogs to stay silent.
Horehound gripped the club he carried. ‘We’ve nothing,’ he grated. ‘Even our salted meat is putrid. Master Reginald,’ he whined, ‘we need meat and bread. I can pay you back in the spring.’ He edged forward, so hungry he was becoming angry. Master Reginald’s buttery and kitchen were full of good meats, golden-crusted pies, soft pork, goose, chicken and other delicacies. His hunger made him bold. He walked across the cobbled yard swinging his cudgel; the taverner lifted his crossbow. ‘Give us some food,’ the outlaw repeated, ‘and we will leave you in peace.’
From the tavern came a shout, a foreign voice. ‘You have visitors?’ Horehound asked. The taverner understood the threat in his voice. ‘They will have to travel, so we will agree to give them safe passage.’
Master Reginald didn’t realise how weak and impoverished the outlaw band had become. Again the voice shouted, and this time he reluctantly beckoned them forward into the sweet warmth and light of his kitchen. Horehound groaned in pleasure. Milkwort and Angelica just stood gaping at the meats spread out on the fleshing tables, the basket of rye bread and the small white loaves freshly taken from the ovens either side of the great hearth. Horehound stared around. Lamplight glinted in the polished bowls and skillets, and it was then that Horehound made his decision. He was tired of the forest; this was his last winter skulking amongst the trees. Emboldened by the prospects of a change, he walked across and stared through the half-open door of the tap room. The five foreigners were seated round a table. Master Reginald, his bitter face even more angry, ushered him away. A leather bag was brought, quickly filled with scraps of meat and hard rye bread and pushed into Horehound’s hand. The taverner allowed them to take one of the fresh loaves and a morsel of cheese before opening the rear door and gesturing at them to leave. As Horehound passed, the taverner gripped the outlaw’s shoulder.