Robin o'Wood

Robin o'Wood ============

Fytte the First: Much the Miller's Son --------------------------------------

Leaf litter rustled underfoot, sunlight sparkled through the canopy above - the warm end of a September summer's day with just a hint of autumn in the air. Much, the Miller's son, singing in a fresh, voice, clear and young, though still with a trace of adolescent throatiness:

In summer with the shadows short And leaves both large and long It is full merry in the fair forest To hear the small birds' song.

Free at last - at least for the afternoon - free from the dusty confines of the mill where the flour dust finds its way into eyes and nose, clogs the throat so that speaking is an effort, and singing is impossible. Not that his father would welcome singing while at work - and singing seemed to be the only thing that Much was good at - that and whistling.

"Can't you tell how much grain there is in that sack, lad? his father would ask irritably. "God's Teeth, boy, how wide is the gap between the two stones?" getting more angry. Sharp clip round the ear. "Can't you even lift the half bags?" as Much, his sixteen-year old back not yet broad enough to support the weight, strained and struggled to shoulder the burden.

But today was a holyday, the Feast of St Winifred, and even the Miller would not dare offend Church Law and put his men - or even his son - to work on such a day.

Much sang again:

To see the deer draw to the dale And leave the high hills free To follow them in the shady green Under the greenwood tree. The woodwarbler sings, and will not stop Amongst the leaves that grow atop.

He broke off and whistled the long quavering trill of the wood warbler so well that a real bird answered him. Much's face broke into a smile, the corners of his mouth turning up to reveal strong white teeth. His nose was tip-tilted so that, even when serious, he still looked like a roguish urchin and his brown eyes sparkled with the irrepressible good humour of healthy youth. He imitated the call of the warbler again and stopped to listen.

Tomorrow the flour grit would again clog his curly brown hair, stop up his throat so that he must needs cough and spit, dim his eyesight so that everything looked as it was fogged with a grey murk. Tomorrow his father would fret and fume, cuff and strike, but today Much, the miller's son, was free and the woods were his.

There was a sudden rustling in the bushes to one side of the animal track along which he was walking and Much froze, staring in the direction. Sunlight worked patch-work patterns amongst the bushes and scrubby undergrowth where a gap in the trees made a pleasant sunlit glade. From them stepped tentatively a young hind about three years old. She sniffed the air delicately and Much was pleased that he was down wind. He wished he had a bow and arrow. The deer was a tempting target even though it was, of course, illegal to shoot the King's red deer and punishment for taking one was death, a punishment that here in the West Riding of Yorkshire, the King's representative, the Sheriff, took very seriously.

The hind took another step forward and, as she did so, there was a thrumming sound from over Much's right shoulder and she started, turned to flee and then seemed to sprout a wooden shaft from her flank. Three more steps she took, each more faltering than the last and then she fell. Much looked behind him but could see no one. The deer lay on her side, her hooves making last twitching movements. Much was so near that he could see her eye glaze over and the lid shut.

The boy was scared but the lure of the dead animal - food for a family for a fortnight - was more pressing. He took another look over his shoulder - still no sign of the archer - and then went towards the dead animal kneeling down beside it, feeling the warmth with his hand and the smoothness of the hair.

Shouts! Movement from the bushes all around him! The startled cry of a bird! Rough hands on his shoulders, pulling him away, hurling him to the ground. A kick to the stomach made Much gasp. When he could breathe again, he looked up into the leering faces of four or five soldiers, tunics emblazoned with the arms of the West Riding of Yorkshire, Sheriff's men.

"Churl," growled one, a swarthy fellow with crooked, black teeth. "This is your unlucky day."

"Look," said another, this one with a scar on his right cheek, "we've caught a little fish, a little poacher." He pinched the fleshy part of Much's buttock painfully as if to test its tenderness. "Oh yes, Very sweet."

"He'll hang a treat," said the first.

Much looked up, confused, then terrified as the meaning sank in.

"But I didn't shoot it, my lords," he stuttered. "I have no bow."

"Dropped it after you shot the King's beast, did you?"

He twisted Much's arm behind his back so that the boy cried out and then hoisted him to his feet as a tall bearded man - a nobleman by his dress and the rich-looking fur-trimmed cloak that he wore loosely over his gown - strode towards them.

"You have the man?" he asked.

"Yes, Sir Guy," said the soldier holding Much. "Here he is."

The man peered. "Just a boy," he said. He touched Much's face with a gentle hand. It was almost a caress. "A beardless boy." There was something rather frightening about the touch. Much did not know what it meant though, if the man was gentle, surely his fear of death should recede just a little. "What's your name, boy?"

"Much, the miller's son, my Lord. From Ferrybridge."

"He was kneeling over the deer, Sir Guy," said the soldier, "when we caught him."

"Was he?" asked Sir Guy. He gave Much a quizzical look. The corners of his mouth turned down as if he didn't like what he was doing. "Pity," he said, "Then there's nothing for it." He paused, then, making a decision, pronounced. "String him up. The Law must take its course."

Much couldn't believe what was happening to him. It was worse than a nightmare for here he was living it. "No," he screamed, struggling in vain to escape from the strong grasp of the soldier. "I didn't do it. It wasn't me." He was crying, the tears starting from his eyes with the terror.

They forced him to stand while one put a rope about his neck. The other end was thrown over a branch of an oak tree which stood in the centre of the clearing. He was lifted off his feet and held three feet from the ground. Much felt the rough noose around his neck, the arms of the soldier holding him round his thighs, felt the rope drawn taut as the end was tied. It was no dream. He was about to die. He could control himself no longer. A stream of urine ran down his leg, soaking his rough homespun leggings. The soldier holding him in his arms, felt the wetness and with a disgusted shout let the boy's body drop.

It swung free. The noose tightened, suffocating, choking. The boy's legs and arms flailed wildly. He could not breathe. His tongue was forced forward out of his mouth. His chest heaved, struggling for air that was no longer available. His throat made strange animal noises. The sky darkened in front of his staring eyeballs. Pain. Panic. PAIN which lasted for ever. Until the darkness fell and he fell with it into the abyss.

He regained consciousness to find himself lying on what at first appeared to be a soft bed. Could, he wondered, be in Heaven? But no! For in Heaven surely his throat would not ache like it did. Nor would the pain in his stomach where the soldier had kicked him still be there. Nor would his head throb, and his eyes hurt and his tongue feel as if it had been almost bitten off. In fact the only pleasant feeling was the softness of the surface under his body, and this he found out, when he managed to organise at least some of his senses, was merely yielding leaf litter. There was though a gentle hand stroking his brow and he seemed to be propped up against a warm, human body.

Someone was talking. Much concentrated.

"You're safe, lad," said the voice. "No need to fear." Much opened his eyes and tried to focus. Blearily, he was aware that he was supported in the arms of a man. A pair of brown eyes met his. The face above him was that of a young man, perhaps early twenties, unshaven, with the soft stubble of a beard. A mass of chestnut curls hung down almost to his shoulders. A smile revealed good strong teeth. The man smelled of wood smoke and some sort of sweet herb that Much found familiar but could not identify.

He tried to say something but his throat refused to let him. The man holding him said, "Water, John. The boy needs a drink." Another figure swum out of the confusion. A tall man, the tallest Much had ever seen, broad shoulders, knotted muscles. A rough, weather-beaten face and the clearest of blue eyes. A leather bottle was put to his lips and Much swallowed, painfully - but thankfully. The cool water eased the burn a little.

The man's arms which held him, eased him further upright and Much was able to see the clearing where it had all happened. The deer still lay on its side. The soldier with the scar was spreadeagled on his back looking very dead, an arrow protruding from the coat of arms on his chest. The rope hung from a branch, its cut end showing where - somehow - it had been severed.

Questioning, though still unable to speak, Much looked up to the young man holding him but it was the giant, John, who answered.

"A sword and dagger bain't much use against a bow and arrow a hundred paces away. Skittered away like scared jack rabbits did the soldiers, 'cept that one." He gestured to the body lying, arms outstretched, on the grass. "Robin cut the rope with another arrow. Fair shot he is with the bow and arrow."

"Sheriff's men," said the man whom John had called Robin. "I wonder who the gentleman in charge was. He of the red cloak and skittish heels."

Much made an effort. "One - was called - Sir Guy," he managed.

"Name swapping terms with Sir Guy of Gisborne, eh, lad?" said Robin. "I hope you didn't tell him yours."

Much thought back through the blur that was his memory of the last terrible moments. Dimly he remembered. 'I'm Much, the miller's son. Of Ferrybridge.' "Does it matter?" he asked.

"You're a wanted man," said Robin, suddenly serious. "If Guy of Gisborne knows your name, you can't go home. He'll be round there to finish what we stopped him doing here. From now on, you're an outlaw."

Much gasped. It was all too much. This morning, perhaps half an hour before, he had been rejoicing in his holiday from the mill and now - never to go home again, not to see his family. Where would he go? What would he do?

In a sudden panic he staggered to his feet and looked wildly around.

"Calm down," said Robin. "You'll stay with us, lad, and we'll let your family know what has happened. Pass the word. Now what's your name and where are you from?"

"I'm Much, the Miller's son, sir, from Ferrybridge."

"Aye," said John, "We know the miller of Ferrybridge. A fair man though not overly gentle."

The words quietened Much's panic and he became more aware of his surroundings. Instantly the clamminess of the leggings around his groin reminded him of how he had wet himself. He picked at the soiled cloth with embarrassed fingers, the dark stain at his fork - there for all to see.

Robin saw him and laughed. "Nay, Much, the miller's son, don't be ashamed. If I had been through what you had, I'd have cacked in mine." He turned to John. "We'll take him to the stream."

Supported by Robin's strong right arm, they crossed the glade where the two bodies lay, soldier and deer, and across to where a rippling brook chattered pleasantly between grassy banks. Much hesitated, not quite sure what to do. He plucked self-consciously at his leggings. John grinned. "Strip 'em off," he advised.

"The boy's embarrassed," said Robin. "But what John says is good advice."

Much took a deep breath and peeled down his leggings, trying to feel that he wasn't being observed by the two men. He tossed the soiled garment into the stream and then waded in after them. The water was not deep, perhaps two feet, and as he rinsed his legs and groin, felt cool on his skin.

"Tha's got nowt to be ashamed of there, lad," commented John and Much blushed though secretly he was pleased. He'd always been criticised by his father for his lack of muscle. That someone should actually think part of him was worth looking at, was gratifying. He sat down in the running flow, the water cooling his thighs and groin.

He rinsed his neck which the rough hempen noose had rasped raw. He took some sips of water from the stream making sure that it was from upstream of where his body was. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Robin's approving nod and heard John's low reply. "He bain't as green as he's cabbage looking." Much wasn't sure but felt that this was some sort of a compliment.

The water babbled past his privates, almost as if tiny fingers were tickling him and, although it was cold, Much felt himself growing. He must get out for if he stayed longer surely his prick would stand proud. Yet if he emerged now the two men would see that he was already hard. He cursed his unreliable prick which, of late, was always becoming erect at sometimes the most embarrassing moments. He made a splashy fuss, grabbing hold of his leggings and beating them, like his mother did with the washing, on the stones of the river bottom. Then he stood and held the sodden garment in front of himself, hiding his traitrous member and wading ashore.

"Well you can't put those back on," said Robin. "They'll take a while to dry."

John seemed to find this funny for he laughed. "Tha'll have to swing free, lad for all to see," and he snatched the garment away from him, waving it around his head so that the drops of water flew in a shimmering circle.

In vain Much tried to hide himself with his hands.

Robin smiled. "It happens, lad," he said, "especially when you're young." He patted him companionably on his bare buttock and Much was reminded of the soldier's testing grasp which he had hated. Strangely he did not object to Robin's warm touch and was obscurely disappointed when he the hand was taken away.

"A military garment will suffice for the while," he said and walked back to the glade where the dead soldier lay. He seemed to have no respect for the corpse as he fumbled with the belt and then drew off the man's hose exposing the dead prick and balls to view. He tossed the garment to Much who was not sure whether he wanted to put on the dead man's garment.

"If it's a question of sensibilities or dying from the ague, I know which I'd choose," said Robin and Much, whose teeth were beginning to chatter even though the sun was warm, pulled them on over his goose-pimpled shanks. They were too large for him but fastened with the belt they would suffice until his own dried.

"Shall us take the tunic and helm, Robin?" said John. "Never know when they'll come in handy."

Robin nodded and together they stripped the soldier bare before dragging the pale body under a bush. "We'll return and bury him before nighfall."

Then John picked up the carcase of the hind and putting it over his shoulders, front and back legs hanging down each side, they set off into the thickness of the forest in the direction of Doncaster.

Fytte the Second: A Wrestling Match -----------------------------------

Before long Much was completely lost. The path had twisted and turned so many times that, even though he had tried to keep track of his direction by the sun, he had no idea whether he was nearer his own village of Ferrybridge or closer to Doncaster Town. Presumably they were still in Barnesdale though even this he was not sure. Indeed if someone had emerged from the bushes speaking Scots he would not have been all that surprised.

At last - though it could not have been that long, they emerged into a clearing where a few crude bothies made from sticks and covered with mud comprised a sort of hamlet. Huge oaks stood around the edge, the spaces between their trunks filled with holly and elder bushes so that it seemed they were completely closed off from the outside world. A stream - though whether it was the same one Much could not tell - ran down one side and perhaps half a doxen men and boys were sitting round a fire which was burning with a clear flame that gave off little or no smoke.

Robin seemed to be angry. "Where's the lookout?" he demanded as the men gathered round the fire looked up. "How did you know we were not enemies?"

"We are hidden in the very heart of the wood," said one, a tall thin man with a drooping moustache and thick eyebrows which met in the middle, and Robin immediately turned on him.

"Ho, William a Trent," he said, "so you feel so safe here that you disobey my orders?" There was an edge to Robin's tone that Much, stranger though he was, recognised as being dangerous. William a Trent, though, seemed not to notice it, his dark brooding face looking even more defiant.

"You are off wandering through the forest," he said, "leaving us to watch out in case some fool of a Sheriff's man chances to blunder along the trackless ways and find our camp."

Robin's eyes narrowed. "Ah, William, William, " he said softly, sounding more sorrowful than angry, "is it more exercise you want? Fed up with being holed up here in camp?"

William looked scared, perhaps realising that he had gone too far, but now unable to back out. "I meant no harm, Robin," he said, his lips twisting in what was obviously meant to be a smile.

The other men were standing now, excitement brightening their eyes and John moved to Much's side. "We'll see some fun now," he heard him say, though whom he was actually talking to Much wasn't sure.

"A little exercise to sharpen the mind, tighten the body." Robin seemed to be taunting the man. "Quarter staves," he suggested, "or perhaps thou'd prefer to wrestle?"

William a Trent appeared to want to back off but, perhaps realising that this was now impossible, he suddenly gave a great roar and rushed at Robin, grasping him round the waist and straining to throw him to the ground. They stayed like that for a few moments before Robin raised both his hands into the air then brought the straight edges sharply down across Trent's neck. He gasped and let go. Robin laughed.

"Tha'll have to do better than that," he said.

Trent coughed and choked and Much, whose own neck was still sore, felt sorry for him. He wondered whether the fight was all over but then the men started to circle like two dogs sniffing out an opponent's weaknesses, warily, looking for an opening. Again Robin seemed to be taunting him, beckoning with his hands as if to encourage another charge, perhaps this time one he would be ready for.

But Trent did not seem to be anxious to make the move and this time it was Robin who moved in. Trent started back, not apparently with any intent except that of avoiding Robin's advance but leaving a leg outstretched, managed fortuitously, to trip his leader up so that Robin fell flat on his face and John gave a gasp at his leader's fall. Trent did not waste his opportunity and flung himself full length upon his body, wrapping arms and legs around and bearing down, both men panting and gasping as they pitted their muscles against each other.

Much wondered what it would feel like to lie so close to another man, to feel his body against yours, his back against your chest, his buttocks pressed against your groin. At the thought, Much felt his prick stiffen and he glanced hurriedly down to see if it showed. Luckily the dead soldier's leggings, which he still wore, were baggy enough to hide any sign. Robin lying on the ground underneath, was twisting and turning in an effort to escape and watching the writhing body made Much feel even more aroused.

At last Robin's flailing arms broke free though Trent's legs still held him around his thighs. He twisted round so that they were face to face and Much found this even more exciting, He could hear the harsh breath gasping mouth to mouth, see the two men lying chest to chest and now groin pressed against groin. The boy, warily so that he would not be noticed, felt his own groin, grasping the hardness of his own shaft.

Both men grappled and strained for some time, their skins becoming slick and slippery with sweat, and then as a result of one last desperate thrust, Robin managed to force open Trent's legs and escape. He was about to stand when Trent, with a curious skittering movement, crawled up Robin's still prostrate body and clamped his legs around his head. The hold was like a wood vice. Robin shouted but it was obvious that the legs, locked around his head were hurting. His eyes bulged, even the shape of his face seemed distorted.

Much noticed how standing at his side John's figure went rigid. He's really worried, Much thought. He could see Trent lying on his side, and Robin's head appearing like a monstrous growth, through the fork of the imprisoning legs.

Trent smiled. "Does tha concede, master?" he asked sarcastically.

Then, when Much thought that Robin must surely capitulate, he saw him duck his head into the fork between the other's legs. There was a sudden shriek of pain and Trent released his hold. John gave a shout of laughter. "He bit him," he said. "He bit his privates."

Robin got up and brushed off the leaves and dirt from his clothing. William a Trent rolled on the ground groaning and holding himself, then wrenching open his breeches to examine his injury, apparently unconcerned, or at least in too much pain, to care that he was observed.

The men around laughed heartlessly. Perhaps they hoped that, if they did so, Robin would not single any more of them for individual attention. Much suddenly realised that they were afraid of Robin but, as his own dealings with him had been nothing but friendly, he wondered at the two sides to the leader's personality, callousness and compassion. What other things would he learn about this man whom Fate had decided would become so important in his life?

Apparently William a Trent found that he still had most of his equipment attached for he covered himself after his examination, got to his feet and approached Robin. Surely, thought Much, he was not going to continue the fight but Trent drew close and, though his face seemed twisted in pain, gave Robin a rough kiss on his cheek.

"A buss for the victor," he said, and retired into one of the rude huts presumably to soothe his injuries and hurt pride.

Robin seemed entirely unconcerned with the episode. Having repaired any outward damage to his tunic and hose, he sat down on the stump of a tree, motioned one of the men to bring the deer John had brought back with them and set them to work skinning and cutting it. Soon several succulent chunks were sizzling on the fire and the smell of roasting venison filled the evening air.

Much was introduced to his new companions. He could not take in all their names which he would learn later but at the moment he was worn out with the day's excitement and wished nothing more than to eat a little - if his throat allowed - soothe it with a cool draft of liquor and fall asleep.

They pestered him with questions about his experience. A new face was a novelty to these bored men whom fate and the Sheriff's strict execution - if not misrepresentation of the King's Law had forced into outlawry, but Much had no desire or indeed capability to talk. They fed him gobbets of venison and a horn of ale which filled the emptiness of his stomach and numbed the soreness in his throat.

At last John noticed how nearly dead to the world the boy was, sitting swaying at the feast and nearly falling into the meats. He carted him off to one of the lean-to shelters. Some bracken sufficed for a bed but young Much could have slept on sword points. Gently the big man covered him with a thick deerhide coverlet and before he had left the hut, Much was asleep.

He was awakened by a desire to piss that was impossible to ignore. Half asleep and almost unaware of his surroundings, he staggered up, seeing the triangular opening of night sky lit by stars and a three-quarter moon, and made it into the glade. Embers of the fire still glowed but the men had disappeared presumably to their huts to sleep. Quickly Much fumbled with the unfamiliar fastenings of his leggings - he could scarcely remember where he had got them nor why he was wearing them in bed - found his prick and directed a stream of ale dregs to the earth gods.

Relieved, he was about to stumble back into the warm bed he had left when he became aware of a strange sound. He had difficulty in identifying it as it was two in one, a slapping sound together with a rhythmic grunt. Much tried to think of an animal that would make such a noise - a badger might grunt but would hardly do it in such a regular way. Nor could he understand the soft slap.

It seemed, moreover, to be coming from one of the huts and, intrigued, Much, now more fully awake, softly made his way to the entrance. His eyes had by now become accustomed to the moonlit night and he could see more or less clearly, as soon as he peered round the doorway that two figures seemed to be behaving in a curious way. At first he thought they were wrestling for their bodies were locked together and the grunting noise, for that was where it was coming from, was being made by them. But they did not appear to be straining against each other, Rather the one on top was bouncing up and down and it was his flesh against that of the one underneath that was making the slapping sound. With a shock Much realised that both men were naked.

He could not understand what was happening. Then, as his eyes grew used to the dimmer light of inside, he recognised who the figures were. The one on top was Little John, his great body almost covering and concealing that of the man underneath. But the long curly hair spreading out beneath identified him as Robin. The great globes of John's buttocks rose and fell and he seemed to be driving himself into Robin. It must be painful to be under such a great weight, thought Much but the sounds Robin was making did not seem like those of pain nor discomfort. Rather they appeared pleasurable and Much could hear him speaking, in great gasps.

"Yes - John - drive it in - deeper, lad - deeper. - Yes!"

At these words John's movement became faster and his grunts louder. In and out, in and out. Much's member quivered. He could imagine himself in such a position though whether he would have preferred being on top or underneath he was not sure. Now at the upper reach, Much could see John's prick, long and hard as it withdrew from Robin's arse and then plunged back in. His own stiffened and he seized it in his hand.

"Faster - Faster," urged Robin as if speaking to a horse and his hands came round to encompass the buttocks above him and pull the body even further in. John's suddenly flung his head back and he uttered a great groan as if in mortal agony, at the same time forcing himself into Robin's body as if he wanted to split him in two. At the same time Robin gave a high-pitched shout and his body went rigid. Then John collapsed on top of his leader and the two lay quiet.

Silently Much withdrew and went back to his own hut, pondering on what he had seen. What had they been doing? Why did Robin allow himself to be treated in such a way? If Robin was in charge, why was John allowed to punish him like this? But was it punishment? Why had the sight affected his own prick so much?

He was still hard when he lay down and pulled the animal hide cover over him. Gently he massaged himself and felt a warm glow extend through his body. He thought to himself how he would like someone else to touch him there. To hold him there. To rub him there. The warmth of the bed was like another body lying round him. His eyelids drooped. He would have liked to continue rubbing but he was too tired. Much slept.

Fytte the Third: William a Trent --------------------------------

Sunlight flooded through the doorhole. found its way between the woven branches and leaves of the roof, discovered the sleeping face of Much, the miller's son, and gently awoke him. He stretched, feeling the soreness in his throat still there but his young body was healthy and the pain would soon go. But what of his life?

His parents must be worried by his failure to return last night, his mother especially. Robin had said word could be got to them. He must find Robin. He threw aside the coverlet and jumped up. From outside came sounds of life and indeed amusement, laughter and excited chatter. Much went out into the sunshine.

Some young and not quite so young men were washing in the stream. Their laughs and horse play as they splashed each other filled the glade. There was the appetite-provoking smell of freshly baked bread and roasting meat and Much's mouth watered. John's tall figure strode across the grass towards him.

"Get the sleep washed from your eyelids," he said as he saw Much's sleepy yawn and stretch. "Then there's food for thy belly."

"My parents," said Much tentatively, "Robin said yesterday . . ."

"All taken care of, lad," said John. "Robin sent a man off to Ferrybridge last evening to tell tha folks. He saw the miller, bought some flour and told him the news."

"How did my mother take it?" asked Much.

"Hard," admitted John. "She cried, but she is glad tha was safe."

"Will you thank Robin," said Much. "Er . . is he all right?" He said, remembering the scene in the bothy from last night.

"Aye," said John, a frown appearing briefly on his face. "Why should he not be? But thank him yourself for here he is."

Much looked up to see Robin striding athletically towards them. He certainly appeared to be in good spirits. There was a broad smile on his face and a warm greeting when he reached the boy. "Did you sleep well, Much the miller's son?" he asked. "How's your neck and throat? Have you recovered from yesterday's hanging?"

"Thank you, Robin. For putting my parents at ease. For rescuing me yesterday. For looking after me."

Robin cuffed him affectionately across the shoulders. "You're one of us now, lad," he said. "Play your part and we'll always be there for you. And now to break your fast."

Much looked a little uncomfortable. "Er, Robin," he said, "I need to relieve myself."

John gave a shout of laughter. "What would tha have us do? Take thee by the hand into the woods, dig a hole for thee to shit into and wipe tha arse wi' a leaf when tha's finished?"

Much blushed. Robin smiled. "Such maidenly modesty," he said, though with no intent to hurt. "You'll have to take our rough ways. Do as John says, come back and wash in the stream and then eat."

When he came out of the woods, the horseplay in the stream had quietened and Much was able to strip and wash with some degree of privacy. He dried himself, put on his own leggings which felt - and smelt much better than the soldier's - and joined the other who were breaking their fast. He was pleased to see that William a Trent was amongst the group though he seemed to be a little unwilling to sit down and ate his meal on his feet.

As Much joined the group around the fire, a young man with blond curls and a complexion which would have been the envy of any young girl introduced himself as Allan Forest.

"How's your neck?" he asked companionably.

Much smiled and helped himself to meat and bread on a wooden platter. They sat together on a log and chewed the venison, mopping up the juices with the freshly baked bread.

"How did you come to join Robin?" asked Much.

"Don't let the blond curls give you the wrong idea," said Allan. "I killed a Sheriff's man who wanted to put his cock in my sister." He smiled as if the act had not been altogether distasteful to him. "Do you want to see it? I cut it off - afterwards."

Much gasped. Suddenly the piece of meat he was biting into did not seem so appetising. "Perhaps later," he said politely.

There was a sudden rapping on the board where the food was laid out. Robin stood there, a piece of deer antler in his hand. Conversation died.

"Well, lads," he said. "News came in last night from our contact at the Abbey. It seems that the reverend Abbot is to make a journey through our land on his way to York. He'll no doubt travel, well-provided for and it's only Christian charity to expect him to share with others less fortunate."

It sounded reasonable to Much and he could not understand why the men around him laughed. They looked pleased at the news however.

"What is the jest?" Much whispered to Allan.

Allan looked at him with the sort of pitying expression usually given to a simpleton then shrugged his shoulders. "You'll learn later," he said. "When Robin decides to tell you."

"Now," continued Robin, "we'll split as before into my group and John's. Mine to the right of the highway, John's to the left. On this occasion perhaps William a Trent, you had better stay in camp until your soreness heals. Much, who is also recovering from a hurt can also stay."

It did not seem as if either of the recipients of this philanthropy were overly pleased. William a Trent looked distinctly affronted as if he had been insulted and Much felt disappointed that he should miss whatever fun the others were about to experience.

"We will see my lord Abbot at the Knottingley crossroads. There is cover enough there. Now eat heartily," finished Robin, "for we leave before the sun reaches the top of the great oak - " and he pointed to a tree that grew at the edge of the glade behind which the sun was climbing into its topmost boughs. The men talked excitedly amongst themselves, some choosing more pieces of meat and others spreading honey thickly on torn off pieces of bread before filling their bellies.

"I'll ask Robin if I can go with you," said Much to his new-found friend. "He will surely agree when I tell him I am well. I know Knottingley anyway. It is not far from my own village."

Allan frowned. "Never, if you value your hide, question Robin's orders. Look at Trent and what happened when he did."

Much could not believe that Robin, who had been so kind to him, so understanding of his problems, had indeed saved his life, would harm him but prudence prevailed. Though much against his will he would have to stay in camp while the others got ready, preparing their bows and sorting their arrows. He could not quite understand why they needed the weapons if they were only off to see an Abbot but assumed that perhaps they would do some hunting along the way. He hoped that Sir Guy and his soldiers would not also be abroad in the forest that morning.

The men departed and for a while he could hear their conversation until a sharp command from Robin made them go silent and he could neither hear nor see them through the screen of leaves.

William a Trent was standing morosely against a tree trunk, fixing Much with a deliberate stare as if he was trying to work something out. Much assumed that he must be as disappointed as he was to be excluded from the expedition so, cheerful soul that he was, he went over to try to enliven his spirits.

"Are you feeling better?" he asked. "I think you fought a good fight last evening. Robin seemed to bend the rules of wrestling rather."

If this was intended to comfort or console the man, it did not appear to have achieved its objective, William a Trent merely giving a grunt which expressed nothing except his unwillingness to converse. Much returned to the fire. If Trent was to be this sociable it would indeed be a long day.

But then Trent spoke. "I'm not staying here," he announced. "Being left like a wench to tidy up and watch for shadows. You can look after the camp. I'm off." He limped into the wood leaving Much amazed. The man had clearly not learned his lesson. Where was he going? If Robin returned and found him absent he would surely pay - and pay dearly.

However, Much did not really relish being left there all on his own. He wondered where Trent was off to. All of a sudden the forest around him seemed quiet and slightly forbidding. Try as he could, he couldn't hear any birds singing and the sunshine, which for the best part of the morning had shone warn and bright through the leaves, had gone in. Clouds had rolled in from the west. It looked like rain.

Much shivered. The camp which before had seemed a refuge, now appeared gloomy and sinister. The rude huts crouched like wild animals ready to spring.

He could still hear the noise made by the retreating Trent as he tramped through the dead leaves and twigs from last year. He almost called out to him that he would come too but something stopped him. Walking lightly and careful not to tread on anything that might have made a noise, he followed the man out of the glade and into the forest.

Trent certainly seemed to know where he was going. He did not walk like a man without purpose. Much followed, keeping a fair distance, and several large tree trunks between them. There was no difficulty. Although he could not always see William, the sound of his footsteps through the dried leaves was loud enough for the most amateurish of woodsmen to follow. They were. he noticed, following a small trail, probably an animal one, that ran alongside the stream.

The footpath, like all in the woods, seemed to double back on itself from time to time but eventually the trees thinned out and Much saw a clearing ahead. At the same time the sound of Trent's footsteps in front of him ceased. The man must have stopped, though Much. Slowly he edged forward. Then with a sudden switch as occasionally happens, the scene took on a familiar cast. It was the clearing where yesterday the deer had been shot, Sir Guy had ordered him hanged. In one direction the trail would lead back to his own village of Ferrybridge, in the other to Nottingley, and eventually to York.

Much paused, uncertain what to do. He could neither see nor hear anyone. William a Trent seemed to have vanished. If he turned left he could be back with his parents within the hour - but what if Sir Guy had indeed left men there to pick him up, finish the job that had been so rudely interrupted the day before. Turning right would mean he would probably meet Robin who would surely be angry at the disobedience of his order.

He paused irresolute - and as he did so a great weight dropped from the tree above onto his shoulders. Much was spreadeagled on the turf. Hands groped for his neck and found it. Cruelly used the day before it was in no shape to bear this fresh assault. He tried to scream but there was no way the air could go in nor out. Dimly he heard words, hissed in his ear.

"Little spy. Follow me would you? You'll pay dearly for that. Can't have you tittle-tattling to Robin."

The man was behind him but Much, through the pain and horror knew it must be William a Trent. Luckily - if there was any luck in the situation - it is easier to strangle someone from the front than the back and the man seemed to realise for he suddenly twisted around, relieving the awful pressure on Much's windpipe for just a second so that he was able to take in an agonised gasp before the fingers clamped round again - though this time with even more force and effect.

Again Much saw dancing lights in front of his eyes. He could think of only one thing. Unless he get away he would surely be dead. Almost instinctively he raised his knee as hard as he could into the fork of the man standing in front of him and the his attacker's already abused testicles received yet another punishing buffet. He screamed and let go, clutching himself in a repeat performance of last night's dance.

Panting and holding his throat, Much took off as fast as he could though with no idea where he was heading. He did, though have enough sense to avoid the trees which from time to time came rushing towards him. He coughed and spluttered and cried, the tears running down his cheeks as he ran, for his life depended on it. His breath was laboured as he panted.

Then he found he had just enough breath to scream for he had run into a body and strong arms encircled him holding him fast.

Fytte the Fourth: The Abbot of Doncaster ----------------------------------------

"No, please," gasped Much. "I won't tell." Though what there was not to tell, he wasn't sure.

"Quiet, lad," said a voice. "There's nothing to fear." And Much recognised the deep but unmistakeable voice of Little John. The boy wiped the tears from his eyes and looked up into the bearded face. "Now what's the matter? Robin won't like it that you disobeyed his orders."

Much stammered out his story, that William a Trent had left the camp and he had followed, then that the man had dropped on him and tried to strangle him. John's face looked more and more puzzled. "Art sure of this, lad?" he asked but then, looking at the evidence around Much's throat, found additional bruise marks to those of yesterday's rope burn. "Aye certainly someone has been trying to twist tha gizzard. But why should Trent behave like this?"

John seemed to ponder for a little and then was about to speak when a sudden cry of a bird, Much recognised it as an imitation, and not a very good one at that, stopped him and he pulled the boy into the bushes with an indication that he should be quiet. From the direction of Nottingley came the faint jangling noise of horses harness and the clip-clop of their hooves on the hard-baked track. "Not a word," whispered John in his ear.

The sounds grew louder. There were obviously some horseman approaching and Much hoped it wasn't Sir Guy and his soldiers. He couldn't quite understand why they were hiding but presumably John knew best - and where were the others of Robin's group? He was acutely conscious of the figure of John next to him, his thigh next to his, so close that he could feel the heat from his body. And John's arm was round his shoulders in what was almost an embrace, though presumably it was just to stop him from standing and revealing himself to the approaching horsemen. Much hoped his unreliable prick was not going to start misbehaving himself. What was wrong with him?

Through the leaves he could see the first of the riders, three soldiers, in helmet and breastplate, with a white surcoat on which the arms of Doncaster were emblazoned. The Abbot presumably - but why with such an armed guard? Then there was the soft whirr of an arrow and the leading soldier crumpled on his horse and slid off onto one side.

Much stared in amazement and horror as that first arrow was followed by a positive volley and another soldier collapsed. The clearing was suddenly filled with shouts and groans and from behind the trees and bushes stepped Robin and his band, each one with a bow in hand and an arrow ready to discharge. The remaining soldier seemed unwilling to fight and indeed broadsword was a feeble weapon against a bow and arrow at any but distance of an arm's length.

The soldiers had been escorting a wagon which had lumbered into view and was now halted at the edge of the clearing. Robin's men crowded round to peer inside. A large man dressed in the habit of a Benedictine monk - black habit, hood and cowl but with a large gold medallion around his neck, surveyed the attackers. A youth, also dressed in black, cowered in a corner but the large man seemed unafraid.

"What is the meaning of this outrage?" he demanded.

"Father Abbot," said Robin, with more than a hint of sarcasm in his tone, "We are poor men and fall upon out knees to ask your charity..."

"Charity?" exploded the fat man, his chins wobbling with the emotion of his fury. "You'll get nothing from me."

Robin surveyed the interior of the wagon which had some interesting looking coffers stacked at one end.

"In that case, Reverend Father, we'll have to take it."

"I think not," said a voice from behind them. Robin and his men started round to see they were surrounded by soldiers who had apparently crept out of the woods and now stood, swords drawn and pointing at the outlaws' vitals. An unintelligent attempt by one to raise his bow was met by a stab in the guts which produced a mortal shriek from the unfortunate man, who collapsed and died writhing on the grass.

Much was horrified at the slaughter, first of the two soldiers, then of the outlaw, though it wasn't one he had talked to or even knew his name.

"So," said Robin, "an ambush ambushed. . . " He did not sound disconcerted but Much noticed that John edged a little nearer to his master, as if to support him. "Very clever, My Lord Abbot, may I ask how you knew we would be this way."

"Pure Luck and God's good Providence." He turned to the soldiers. "Tie them up. We'll take the villains to Ferrybridge and hang them there."

They trussed the men up and without ceremony tossed them into the wagon, to lie in a heap on the floor. The young monk, little more than a boy himself, took no part in these events but watched from a corner, looking scared and indeed horrified by the whole proceedings. Much found his ankles and wrists bound and he was picked up and thrown in, making a soft landing luckily for him, though not for the man underneath. It was dark there but Much's sense of smell told him that he had landed on Robin himself - his smell, that of wild marjoram he now recognised, was distinctive. He found his head was lying in the fork between Robin's legs and felt embarrassed though his own uncontrollable and unpredictable member seemed to think that this position was arousing. He tried to move but heard Robin's voice.

"Lie still, boy. There is no point in wriggling."

Much obeyed - not unwillingly - and imagined all sorts of things, none of which did his the excitement in his cock any good at all. He wasn't sure but he sensed a slight hardness in his pillow and wondered at what might be happening there. The wagon suddenly rocked and jerked forward and Much's face was jolted even further into Robin's groin. The movement over the round ground resulted in a regular up and down motion which seemed to be aggravating the hardness beneath his head. His own erection had achieved magnificent proportions at the other end and he felt embarrassed though why this was so when Robin was obviously afflicted in the same way, he wasn't sure. He did not, though he would have liked to, do anything with either and lay in pleasant torment until the wagon drew up, stopped and the coverings were flung open to let in the daylight.

Only then did he realise how bad things looked for them. There had been talk of hanging. Hanging!! Was his neck, like his cock, never to be out of trouble? But if things turned out the way they seemed, then it looked as if his troubles, of both sorts, would soon be over.

The outlaws were roughly dragged out - into the Market Square, Much recognised. One soldier, a coarse-featured man with whiskers, muttered, 'Let's string the bastards up now,' but the Abbot demurred.

"There will have to be a trial tomorrow," he said, though his tone suggested that he did not wholeheartedly approve, but then he brightened. "And then we can string them up." He added piously, "And may God have mercy on their souls."

"What shall we do with them overnight, Lord Abbot?" asked the soldier.

The Abbot looked a little confused, his fat jowls wobbling with the effort.

"The lockup will provide suitable accommodation, my Lord," suggested another of the soldiers - obviously a local man. "It's where we house all the vermin."

"Not too comfortable, I hope," asked the Abbot.

"No, my Lord," said the soldier and chuckled. "Though the rats seem to enjoy it," he added.

It was indeed a noisome place. Windowless and stinking of excretion and piss. Straw laid on the stone floor ages before had rotted and now was slimy with decay. Some things scuttled away into the corners as they entered. The men were not fed. No point said the soldier, when they would die on the morrow, though their bonds were removed. After all there's no place to go, so they might as well scratch at their fleabites in comfort, they were told as the heavy oak door crashed shut and they were left in pitch darkness.

Much could not help it. He began to sob, though struggled to hide the sound from his companions. So this was the end. Tomorrow Robin, John, Allan Forrest, the other two whose names he did not know, and he, Much, the Miller's son would be hanged in Ferrybridge Square, before his own towns people and probably in front of his own parents. His life would end even before his seventeenth birthday! And still a virgin!

Gradually he found his eyes were getting used to the gloom, for some little light did indeed enter around where the door did not quite fit its jambs, which allowed him to make out the figures of his companions sitting disconsolately on the floor, Robin close to John. He could just identify the flaxen-headed Allan, and, as if that was a signal, his friend of the morning got up and came across to where Much stood. He put his arm round his shoulders and Much turned to him, clasping him as if he was his mother - or his lover, holding him close, and crying out his fear unconstrainedly.

They sank down together onto the loathsome straw and gave what comfort they could to each other as the light faded and what would surely be their last night on earth filled the cracks around the door with its darkness.

Second Part of 'Robin O'Wood'

Fytte the Fifth: Trial and Judgement ------------------------------------

It was doubtful whether any of them got any sleep that night, certainly Much didn't. At first Robin and John attempted to put a little optimism into their spirits but after an hour or so even they succumbed to a sort of numb despair and became silent. The two other men whose names Much discovered were Edward Coin, who had a game left leg, and Hugh Goodyear talked quietly to each other. Much's tears gradually ceased and at last, exhausted he lay curled up with Allan for warmth, occasionally drifting into what might have been sleep but for the fact that the surroundings and tomorrow's foreboding kept arousing him with starts of dread consciousness.

At last, worn out and dejected, they saw the greyness of dawn gradually outline the door and were eventually aroused by a rattling of key in lock and the creak of its opening. Soldiers stood there, armed and ready to take them to the courthouse. A grey day indeed. Lowering clouds and rain being driven into their faces by a bitter easterly wind. The cobble stones of the square were slippery and treacherous and even the buildings seemed to frown as they were marched under the high arch of the entrance. A few townspeople stood and watched.

A single figure stood there, slight and thin, dressed in the black habit of a Benedictine monk. It was the young lad who had been accompanying the Abbot in the wagon yesterday. He had some bread in a bag which he passed to the prisoners and the soldiers did not object. Perhaps they assumed that it was on the Abbot's orders - perhaps it was.. Much's fear of what was to happen had, he thought, taken his hunger away, but his body, young and healthy, craved food - he had not in fact eaten since the previous morning - and he wolfed down the crusts and also gratefully drank the mouthful of water which the lad dispensed from a wooden bowl. He smiled at Much as he gave him his drink, though the smile was sad, as though he knew his fate and was sorry for it.

They were marched into a large room which appeared to have some legal function. There was a large chair - almost a throne - at one end, with smaller ones on each side, and the walls were hung with tapestries bearing the coats of arms of the Counties and Boroughs of Yorkshire. Some benches at the other end seemed to be available for an audience though they were empty. The outlaws were herded into a corner and allowed to sit on the floor to wait.

An hour passed, perhaps longer. Much felt his bladder bursting though he was glad indeed that he had had little to eat and his bowels were giving him no trouble. At last there were shouts from outside and the soldiers prodded Robin and the others to their feet with the points of their swords. The doors were flung wide and a tall, bearded man whom Much immediately recognised strode in. It was his old enemy, Sir Guy of Gisborne, he who had ordered his hanging two days before for killing a deer and now looked as if he would repeat the directive again - for a different crime. Much felt so scared that he almost pissed himself yet again.

Behind Sir Guy waddled the Abbot of Doncaster and his young acolyte looking, if anything, even more scared and uncomfortable. Two other clerical looking gentleman completed the entourage and they occupied the seats on the raised dais. The young monk, though, received a vicious slap around the head from the Abbot when he tried to take a seat. If he hadn't been in such a desperate position himself, Much would have felt sorry for him.

Sir Guy looked at the sorry collection of men in front of him, tired and dishevelled, bedaubed with the filth of the prison and the bruises and cuts that the soldiery had administered while taking them prisoner.

"Are these the men?" he asked - unnecessarily as there were no others.

"Yes, my lord," said the soldier who appeared to be in charge. "I am the Constable and responsible for their keeping."

"And what charges are laid against them, then, Constable?"

"Murder, my Lord, of two soldiers," said the soldier, "Attempted highway robbery. Attack on the person of the His Reverence, High Abbot of Doncaster- " he seemed to be about to list more grave offences but Sir Guy interrupted, turning to the Abbot as he did so.

"My Lord Abbot," he said, "can you confirm and give witness to these alleged acts?"

"I can indeed," puffed the man. "They attacked my wagon on the Doncaster/Nottingley road, killing two soldiers in the process. My life itself was put in peril and had I not been prepared for just such an ambush, they would have taken the contents of the coffers which we were transporting to York, where I take up residence in my new capacity of Bishop." This speech seemed to have robbed the fat man of his breath for he panted at the end of it before recovering and saying. "I demand they be treated with the full rigours of the Law."

"Just so! Just so!" said Sir Guy. "Do we have their names?"

The Constable to whom this remark was addressed appeared a little taken aback at that. He had not thought it necessary to find out the identities of the men.

Sir Guy spoke to the outlaws for the first time. "Well," he said. "Do you have names? At least for the records. I cannot promise you grave-stones as condemned criminals are not buried in consecrated ground."

Robin drew himself up. "Robin Hood is my name," he said, "and these are my men, Little John, Allan Forrest, Edward . . . . "

Again Sir Guy interrupted a speaker. "Robin Hood!" he said. "I have heard of you. A pesky fellow who makes journeys in these parts dangerous. The County will be well rid of you."

"Hang 'em," advised the Abbot. "Take 'em outside and hang them." The clerical gentlemen sitting alongside nodded in agreement.

Sir Guy looked as if he would be pleased to accede to the Abbot's request, but frowned before saying, "Unfortunately the Sheriff himself needs to sign the Death Warrant and he will not be back until tomorrow. Anyway I think he would well be disappointed not to see the villain swing himself. Perhaps one more night in the lock-up will put them in better frame of mind for their entry to Perdition. Guard them well, Constable, I have heard this Robin Hood is a slippery villain . . ."

The soldier saluted and he and his men escorted the prisoners out into the leaden-skied morning. There was a fair crowd of towns-people gathered in the Square by this time, braving the rain, who looked with interest at the bedraggled little procession as it wound its way back to the lockup. Much searched the faces to see if his parents were amongst them but, though he recognised a few, could not see those he dreaded most. One face though did suddenly stand out... The thin, weasely faced man whose moustaches and thick eyebrows made him instantly recognisable.

"Robin," said Much, out of the corner of his mouth. "Look, there towards the stand that sells pannikins. It's William, William a Trent."

Robin gave a quick glance but the man had disappeared.

"Quiet, boy! You're seeing sprites and hobgoblins where there are none," he said. "Trent will be far from here, in the safety of the woods."

"I'm sure it was him," said Much.

"Stop that talking," said a soldier and gave Much a slap on the buttocks with the flat of his sword. It hurt but not as much as if it had been the edge. Much was quiet but thought a great deal. Before his attempt to strangle him, Trent had accused him of spying on him. Why should he have done that if he were doing nothing wrong? And where had he been going so purposefully that morning yesterday? A remark from the Abbot came into his mind. '..had I not been prepared for just such an ambush...' Who could have 'prepared' him? Who indeed knew anything about the ambush except the members of Robin's band? And, apart from Trent, all the others were now here, under sentence of death...

A chill thought took hold of Much's mind. William a Trent was a traitor. It must have been he who had warned the Abbot who had then split his soldier escort. Obviously he had sent a few on ahead while the others hid and then attacked after Robin's men had made their own ambush, and were occupied in surrounding the wagon.

And now Trent was watching the results of his treachery, prior to receiving his pieces of silver, but too ashamed to let Robin catch him. Not that there was anything Much could do. As far as he was concerned, life was over - or would be on the morrow, when the Sheriff returned to sign the warrant. Twice already he had nearly been strangled. The third time it would definitely happen.

The stout door banged gloomily shut and once again they were in the darkness and smells of the lock up. Overriding all fears though for Much was the need to piss. Before the others' eyes grew accustomed to the murk, he felt his way to the far wall, took out his prick and relieved himself, feeling ashamed of his own weakness but mightily soothed when the contents of his bladder was emptied. He looked apologetically round though no one could see the expression on his face and he need not have worried as, from the sounds, there were others doing the same.

It was a long day. The crust of bread they had received from the young monk seemed to be all they were destined to receive. Edward and Hugh fell to praying, for deliverance, for mercy, but Much could not bring himself to pray to a God he had ignored with the arrogance of youth until this moment of trial. Sounds from outside, the cries of street traders, the rattle of wagon wheels and the clip clop of horses' hooves on the cobbles, told them that others were carrying on with their normal, everyday lives and a coarse laugh from the other side of the door showed that their gaolers were enjoying a jest, probably at their expense.

The day wore on.

Their stomachs rumbled, some bowels moved, the stench inside grew more and more offensive. Some lay down and tried to sleep. Others walked up and down occasionally treading on their supine comrades and receiving a curse for their pains. Sometimes they talked, though mostly in whispers as if everyone else was a spy and might bear witness against them.

At last the grey light died and night fell.

Fytte the Sixth: The Following Day ----------------------------------

Much dozed fitfully. And awoke choking with the foulness of the air. For a moment he didn't know where he was but remembrance soon returned. He felt almost unable to breathe and wondered if the air nearer the cracks in the door would be sweeter. He had lost all sense of orientation but then noticed that there was the faintest of lights in a rectangle. Was this the coming of dawn, his last dawn? But the light did not seem the grey light of daybreak. It was yellow and flickered and Much eventually realised that it must be a torch that the guard outside was using. He crawled over to the doorway and put his face as close as he could to the crack. A draught of fresh, sweet air blew in and he breathed deeply.

Then he heard voices, one high-pitched and young, the other older, deeper.

"What is it?" asked the deep voice, sounding thick with sleep.

"Some wine for the prisoners," said the higher pitched one. "From the Abbot in his boundless charity."

Much hadn't seen much evidence of charity from the Abbot and listened in surprise.

"Let's see," said the gruff voice, presumably that of their gaoler.

"It is for the prisoners," said the other.

"Huh!" A rough grunt. "Hardly enough to share round six men!" came the observation. "But a thirsty soldier - doing his duty..." The sentence was unfinished but the meaning obvious.

"I don't know that my Lord the Abbot...." said the young voice and Much realised that it must be the young monk who had been so charitable with his gift of bread at the court house, the previous day.

"Your Lord the Abbot won't know, unless a young whipper-snapper of a novice monk tells . ." and there was a threat in the voice..

"Oh, sir, I won't tell." The boy sounded frightened. "As God is my witness."

The next sounds were of deep and sustained drinking. They went on for some time. "'Tis bitter," said the voice, "but no doubt all he can...." His voice suddenly broke off and was replaced by a horrid, choking sound, which went on and on, turning into groans of evident agony until they grew weaker and weaker and were at last mercifully stilled.

Much listened in amazement. What was happening? The noises had been loud enough to awaken the rest of the prisoners and they crowded round the doorway, also curious to find out what wa going on.

There was a pause of almost audible silence when even the men's breathing seemed to have stopped and then a metallic rattle of keys, the insertion of one into the lock, a vain turning, another try, a third and finally the rusty levers moved and the door swung silently open.

There in the flickering light from a torch, stood the young monk. He seemed terrified and as the prisoners stepped out, he backed against the wall and looked about to collapse. On the floor was the body of the solder, lying in a contorted position which told of his last agony. His head was lying in a puddle of vomit, his eyes wide and staring, his mouth open in a last silent cry of despair.

The youth - he was little more than a boy - stammered, "What have I done? He said it would just put him to sleep."

Robin took charge.

He went to the boy, now shivering as if he had an ague and put his arm around him. The gesture gave Much a slight feeling of some emotion which he interpreted to his surprise as jealousy.

"It is not your fault," Robin said, drawing the youth close to his body. "You did no wrong. But the man is dead and you cannot stay here. Will the Abbot keep you safe?"

At the mention of the Abbot, the boy's eyes grew even wider in fear. "I hate him," he said. "He... He..." He seemed unable to continue, unable to say what he feared so much about the Abbot but it was obvious that the boy knew he would get no protection from him.

"Then you must come with us. Explanations can follow. We had better find our way out of this cursed place before dawn is up and the whole town is roused - which includes Sir Guy, the Abbot and the Sheriff."

Before they left John picked up the discarded leather bottle and sniffed at what little remained of its contents. "As I suspected," he said to Robin, though Much overheard, "Wolfsbane - a deadly concoction." He took the bottle with him.

The sky towards the East was already lightening as they went out into the Square though the overcast clouds which had been there since the day before still looked as if they might let fall a further torrent of water at any moment.

They took the Nottingley road and moved quickly, though some of them, Much included, felt faint from lack of food. The young monk apparently noticed this for he produced from under his habit a bag containing more of the bread that he had distributed yesterday.

"It's not been tampered with, I trust," said Robin and when the youth shook his head, the men gulped down the stale fare as if it was indeed ambrosia. They passed the last huts of the town without seeing anyone and soon were walking between fields. The day gradually lightened though the sky remained threatening. In the distance perhaps five miles away was the forest and safety.

"Well while we walk, we might as well hear your story," said Robin to the young monk. "First your name." The boy scratched his head, his hair cut short though not yet tonsured, his grey eyes looking alarmed and wary as if he were uncertain whether to give such information, his face peaked and then, though not ill-favoured.

John patted him on the shoulder to give him encouragement and the boy smiled. Suddenly he was attractive.

"Brother Dominic," he said. "Though my real name is Will. Will Scarlock. Novice monk at the Abbey of Doncaster. The Abbot sent me on a task into the Market yesterday afternoon and while I was there a man spoke with me. He asked whether I had sympathy for the men who were to be hanged on the morrow. Apparently he had seen me giving you bread in the morning. I said I had and he asked me whether I would be willing to help you escape."

"So this man provided the wine in the bottle and he said that it would just put the man to sleep. But you said the wine was for us?"

"The man told me to do this. He said the soldier was bound to drink it himself but he wouldn't be suspicious if I said it was for you . . ."

"And this man. Did he give a name?"

"He said his name was William - like mine - but he told me no more."

Robin gave John a sharp look but did not comment. Much found himself bewildered.

"I still don't understand why you wanted to help us," said John who was listening closely to the explanation - as was Much.

But Will wouldn't or couldn't answer.

They were still some two hours away from the safety of the forest when a tremendous crack of thunder echoed down the valley, making them all jump, and the storm which had been threatening all morning broke. Torrential rain cascaded down and in a minute their clothes were all soaked. They stood for a moment in a vain attempt to get shelter under some trees but Robin knew they could not stay here. There would be a chase as soon as their escape was discovered any time now and the road to the forest would be the obvious way of pursuit.

As it happened they were standing by a field in which three horses were morosely cropping the grass. "We'd make faster time on those," said John nodding towards the three nags.

"Will they take us?" asked Robin.

"They are stout beasts," said John. "Each will take two grown men and the three boys," nodding towards Allan, Much and Will, "can ride the third. They'll last well enough for the few miles to the forest."

Suiting action to his words, he pushed his way through the hawthorn hedge, doing more damage to an already worn tunic, and strode to where the horses stood, patiently enough. He spoke softly to them as is the way with men who understand horses. They had halters and he led them to where the men stood, huddled miserably in the driving rain.

Robin and John mounted and then Edward and Hugh. Allan leapt onto the back of the third but Much and Will seemed disinclined.

"I can't ride," objected Much.

"Give me your hand," said Allan and pulled him onto the horses back where he sat a little uneasily in front of Allan. Then Will was hauled up to sit in front of Much who perched, the filling of a sandwich, between the two young men.

"Hold on tight," said Allan his arms round the two of them and holding the halter. With his heels he encouraged the horse into motion.

Despite Much's uneasiness at being so far from the ground, his unreliable prick started its usual antics as soon as he felt the two warm bodies behind and in front of him. Allan's body was pressed into his back and buttocks, the young and rather bony figure of Will Scarlock was held against his chest and groin. Added to that the movement of the horse and its riders increased his arousal. He tried to edge back from Will's body but it seemed that the youth deliberately pressed backwards into him as his torso was bumped up and down by the horse's movement. Perhaps he felt safer while in close contact.

But the rain took all enjoyment from the ride, though it was certainly quicker than walking and in perhaps half an hour they reached the outskirts of Barnesdale Forest. Here they dismounted and released the horses, urging them away with slaps on the rump.

"They will find their own way home," said John and indeed the horses trotted back the way they had come and soon disappeared from sight around a bend in the road.

The group plodded their sodden way into the depths of the forest, following the narrow pathways and tracks that John and Robin knew so well towards their camp.

Fytte the Seventh: Night Movements ----------------------------------

The camp site was as it had been two days earlier - though wetter. Drips wept soggily from the leaves on the trees and ran down their necks. The last time Much had seen it, it had appeared a place of refuge but now it did not look nearly so cheerful. The fire of course was out. He was hungry, tired, soaked to the skin and the filthy dirt from the prison ran in streaks down his face.

Hugh Goodyear immediately took charge of the fire-making. Though the wood was soaked he seemed to know of some kindling secreted away in a sheltered place which was dry, and by rubbing a piece of hard stick into another softer piece, the friction created soon produced, first a wisp of smoke and then a small flame which he encouraged with some dry straw, obtained from Heaven knew where.

"Hugh is a marvel with the fire," said John approvingly and set about cutting strips from the dead deer, skewering them on sticks and holding them to the flames so that soon the juices started dropping and the delicious smell of roasting meat made the men salivate. Allan Forrest meanwhile heated some water in a copper vessel which looked as if it had originally belonged in some rich lord's castle. Once this had boiled he infused some herbs and produced a drink, the like of which Much had never tasted before. Sweetened with honey, he thought it very fine indeed. And the roast venison - delicious. Will Scarlock still had some bread in his pouch and this completed the welcome meal for the hungry men.

The rain eased a little but their clothes were still soaking wet and, in spite of the heat from the fire, Much felt chills from the cold trembling down his back and legs. He could not stop his body starting to shiver.

Will was in a similar state and Robin noticed how the two boys shook.

"The best place for you two is bed," he said, taking them off to the bothy that Much had used two nights before. "Come strip off those clothes. I assume," he said to Will, "that a monk for the sake of his health can strip in front of mortal men!"

Between chattering teeth, Will explained that he had taken no vows, was still only a novice and dropped his habit exposing a body which was slim, though well-formed, but also displayed the purplish-blue marks of bruises on his back and buttocks. Robin saw but did not comment. Instead he produced two thick dry cloths and, handing one to Will, used the other to dry his body and start the circulation. "Come, Much," he said encouragingly, "Will can dry you at the same time if you are not too shy to remove tunic and hose."

Much was much afraid of what his body would do but could see no way out and peeled off his clothing, experiencing a warmth and comfort from the rubbing of the cloth on his back and chest.

"Now," said Robin when both were dry, "into bed with both of you. You can share so that you will soon become warm and keep off the ague." He smiled as he saw them both jump onto the bracken bed and covered them with the animal skin. "You will probably sleep out the day and night, the terrors of the past days taking it out of you."

He left the bothy with their clothing, whistling cheerfully.

Much was not quite sure what to do with a young naked boy next to him. His body gave an involuntary shiver though whether from cold or excitement he was not sure. Will, however, had no such inhibitions. He faced him and clasped him, wrapping his arms and legs around him so that his body was pressed against his. For a second Much was reminded of a monkey he had seen at a Fair in Ferrybridge years ago which had leapt from his owner's care and clasped him in the same way - as if his life depended on it, as if it would never let go - but this body was different. It was warm and human, the skin was soft against his and - yes - down there he could feel Will's prick as hard as his own.

He was though not sure how to proceed. He wanted to press with his own - that would seem right - to move against the opposing one but should he act in such a way? Will - Brother Dominic - might not have taken vows but he was a novice monk. Would it not be blasphemous, even sacrilege to . . . to what? To satisfy his lusts? Uncertain, he took refuge in questions.

"Where did you get those bruises, Will?" he asked.

Will's body tensed for a second and then - if possible - pushed even closer into Much's, who groaned inwardly and wanted - so badly - to push back.

Will's breath when he spoke was soft and sweet, almost like a caress. "The Abbot," he whispered. "He beats me! And for no reason except that I have to do what he wants . . . "

Much tried but could not understand what he meant. "What does he want you to do?" he asked.

Again came the shudder which was both pitiful and yet, for Much, arousing.

"I have to . . . sleep with him . . . and yet I do not sleep because he . . . " again he seemed unable to finish the sentence, as if the recollection was too painful for him. "But here," he continued, "here I feel so safe and warm . . ." His words grew drowsy. "Here I could sleep as I have not done for so long . . ." The last word faded and his breathing against Much's neck grew soft and regular.

Much realised that the other boy had fallen asleep, exhausted from his nightly treatment by the Abbot, by the terrors of the day and lulled perhaps by Much's own warmth and arms. His prick needed attention but Much was not going to risk arousing his partner by any movement, much as he would like to. He would have to withstand the pleasures, hope that eventually it would grow limp - though locked against this warm and compliant body, he doubted that.

He was wrong though for the warmth and comfort soon mastered his desires. Before long both youths were asleep while outside and unobserved by them the sun at last came out, the world turned once more.

Fytte the Eighth: Celebrations ------------------------------

When Much woke it was daytime and the sun was shining on what was in fact the afternoon of the following day, though he did not then realise it. He found to his sleepy surprise that he was lying next to a warm body and for a moment could not remember who it was or how it had got there. But it was certainly alive and indeed wriggling, trying it seemed to get close to him.

Much's prick reacted as it always did at any contact with another and rose. Suddenly he gasped because a hand had sneaked down between his legs and was grasping it. Never had it been held by another hand except his own and he realised how much better it felt when clasped by another. Blasphemy or no, he felt for Will's - ah yes that was who it was, Will Scarlock - cock and felt the hard rod, the soft skin which slid so easily over the core, which gave so much pleasure when his own was frotted, rubbed, stroked up and down as it was being done now. His mouth opened in a soundless gasp. He felt a tingling in his loins and knew that soon . . . very soon . . .

A shadow blocked the bright sunlight in the doorway and a whirlwind entered. John, his face plastered with a huge, mischievous grin, took two strides to their bed and whipped off the covering. Much felt his cock grow limp, felt the one in his hand do the same before he let it go. He gave a groan of frustrated desire, but John's greeting was infectious.

"Come, lads," he said then added slyly, "or rather you have had all night and most of today to do that. Now is the time for celebrations. The first of the month and it is feast day and then festivities - or such as we can provide." He was carrying their clothes, dry and sweet smelling, obviously washed by someone and dried overnight by the fire. "Perhaps," he suggested to Will, "you would prefer less ecclesiastical garb, so I have brought you tunic and leggings which I think will fit."

Much groaned and stretched himself nor caring that he was naked, that all could see. Appealing though the announcement John had made was, all he wanted to do was to go back to the play with Will but it was not to be. The big man, with shouts of laughter, dragged the two youths from their warm cocoon and, with one tucked under each arm, carried them naked as the day they were born and protesting loudly to the stream where he dropped them both in.

After yesterday's downpour, the brook was considerably deeper than it had been the last time Much had been in. He disappeared underwater and reappeared gasping and spitting water. Will's head also emerged next to him. The two boys splashed about, laughing, until they started to get cold. So they washed each other, paying some attention to those parts which they had been interested in before and emerged to dry themselves off on the cloths provided and eventually dress themselves in their clean clothes.

Someone had been hunting, either yesterday or earlier in the day for the carcase of a new beast had been cut into joints which were succulently spitting over the fire. Also someone must have dared to return to Ferrybridge for freshly baked loaves with what Much recognised as his father's symbol pressed into each crust lay on the board. At the sight, he felt a momentary pang of home-sickness, but immediately forgot it when Will playfully tweaked him in the privates and ran away to be caught. They wrestled like young puppies under John's indulgent eye until Robin called them both to eat. There were leather bottles of sweet white wine which heated their bodies and made them giggle foolishly.

Hugh and Edward were already eating and Allan emerged from his hut to join them. A moment later the tall, figure of William a Trent followed him, his saturnine features looking scarcely less amiable than the last time Much had seen them.

Much gazed at him in amazement and heard Will mutter beside him, "That is the man."

So William a Trent was no traitor to Robin. It was he in fact who had saved them from execution. He could not still understand why Trent had been so furious with him when he had trailed him through the forest but at least he had him to thank for his life.

"What are we celebrating?" Much asked Robin who was sitting at the head of the feast and distributing sweet autumn apples to end their meal.

"That we are still alive," said Robin. "The first of the month. The festival of Samhain in the language of the Old Religion."

Much felt Will who was sitting beside him, start at this and turned to his friend to see a worried frown on his forehead. "It is a pagan festival," he whispered.

Much put his hand on his thigh as if to console him but Will still looked perturbed. Someone had prepared some large turnips, hollowing out their insides and cutting strange faces in their skin so that they looked like the gargoyles which stared down on the rain spouts of Our Lady's Church in Ferrybridge. Inside the globes were candles burning and they had been arranged around the rim of a large circle within the glade.

"Let us welcome the Lord and Lady of the Feast," said Robin and pointed to a gap in the trees where two strangely clad figures had just emerged. Much recognised the first by the limping walk he had as Edward though he was wearing a pointed animal mask over his face and had the horns of a stag on his head. The other one was Allan with a green robe and a garland of bright red berries round his yellow hair.

Hugh Goodyear started to play a tune on the fiddle. It was one that Much had not heard before with a slow, stately rhythm which reminded him a little of the chanting of monks. The two cloaked figures, one masked, the other smiling began a dance which consisted of their weaving around each other, nearly but never quite touching, a mystical ritual dance which seemed as if each step had been planned in advance, that their movements meant something more than just hand gestures, that they were in some way conjuring a union between animal and human kingdoms so that both might live in concord and Earth's harmony reign.

The tune got quicker and quicker until the rhythm set everyone's toes a-tapping and all must needs get up and join in the dance, Robin with John, Much with Will. Only Trent was left on his own until Robin took pity on him and included him so that their twosome became three. Faster and faster played Hugh, his fingers and bow dancing blurs over the strings until with a final chord he stopped and the dancers sank to the ground, exhausted and heated from their exertions.

To slake their thirsts there was more sweet wine until the two youths, unused to such powerful drinks, giggled and fell about to the amusement of the others.

Then Allan brought out a large bowl filled with water into which he dropped apples so that they floated on the surface. And the men tried to bob for them, catching them in their teeth and mouths while Robin explained that if an apple were caught in one bite, love would thrive, two bites love would be brief. But if it took three attempts, love would turn to hate and for four there would be no love at all.

There was clapping and laughter when Robin, Much, Allan and Will all took their apples at the first attempt, though a slight frown of annoyance crossed John's honest face when he he could only get one at the second endeavour. Try as he might poor Edward could not pick up an apple at all and Robin said that meant he would have the most love of all, but would be tied to no one. William a Trent darkly refused to play such a silly game and was roundly abused for his surliness.

Next everyone had to perform his piece. Hugh of course had already played on the fiddle and Edward and Alan their ritual dance but Much and Will were asked to sing.

"Do you know, 'In summer when the shadows short'," asked Much for it was his favourite song.

Will did indeed and the two boys' voices combined sounding clear and innocent in the evening air. Sentimental John's eyes filled with tears and even the others fell quiet as the last strains of the young voices faded. A silence fell.

"A game of Blind Man's Buff," suggested Hugh. They drew straws for the 'Blind Man' and it was Much who drew the short one. John wrapped a cloth around his head so that he could see nothing. He wondered, as he groped around the now silent grove, which one he would really want to 'catch', to hold and feel so that he could identify. Will would be easy. His body was light and slim, the bones prominent. Likewise John for his great size would make him instantly identifiable.

Hugh and Edward though would be difficult to tell apart. They were both of a similar size and build. Of course Hugh limped but that wouldn't be obvious when standing still. Allan - well Allan was tall and slim. Much would enjoy holding his body and he would surely know Trent for their bodies had already tangled when he had jumped on him in the wood . . . .

A body brushed his and he spread his arms to catch it, but it escaped him and he grabbed the empty air.  He heard a mocking laugh and then there were voices all around him, calling his name.  He lunged again and grabbed a handful of cloth but it was wrenched free - surely that was against the rules - when you were caught, you were meant to stand quiet.  He was about to protest when he felt the warmth of another body close to him, not touching, but near enough for recognition to be possible.  He reached out his hands and felt someone, standing close and still.

Much identified him immediately.  The scent of wild marjoram filled his nostrils.  It was Robin of course.  But why should he name him then and here. He would have to leave go of him, remove the cloth. Now licence to touch was his. Greatly daring but knowing he was within the rights of the game, he carefully explored the body, feeling the trim waist, the broad chest and shoulders, the soft curls of his hair, chestnut he knew but of course of no colour at he moment. Then as a blind man would, he gently felt the features, running his fingers over the broad forehead, the eyelids, closed under his touch, the strong nose, the warm, soft lips. He felt them open under his touch and a sweet breath, like a caress, touched his cheek as Robin laughed.

Still pretending not to know whom he had caught, Much allowed his hands to go down the body, past the waist to the legs, strong and muscled and then up inside to where in the fork was a softness which hardened under his touch. He heard laughter from the on-lookers but did not mind.

A soft voice laughed into his ear. "Have a care, lad, or you'll make me shoot."

"'Tis Robin," said Much loudly and pulled off the blindfold.

And Robin it was indeed who bussed him soundly on the cheek for his audacity.

Then the boys sang again and Hugh played on his fiddle and they all danced, and at last, when meat and wine was finished, the Lord and 'Lady' of the Feast closed the proceedings and all went to bed.

Will and Much lay in their separate cots and Much thought of Robin, how fine and strong he was. Though how unpredictable - much like his own cock, he thought. And then he thought of the game and how he had explored Robin's body and he grew hard thinking about it.

"Will," he said softly, "are you still awake?"

"Aye." Will's voice came softly out of the night. "Are you lonely?"

"A little," said Much. There was a rustle of leaves and a warm body crawled in beside him. They cuddled together for comfort and companionship.

"Earlier," said Much tentatively, "we touched each other..."

"Like this?" asked Will and a hand took him by the prick.

"Yes," said Much. "Oh yes . . . ."

--

/ | / (_) | | __ __ | |

/ |/ | |/ | / / | | //|__/||_|/_|_,_ |_|