Shadow of the Wolf Read Online Free PDF

had long since fallen. Elsewhere in the manor candles were being extinguished. A lone sentry stood with his lampabove the main gates. A few final prayers were being said and then silence.
    They went back into the tower and crawled into their den. It had been agreed, without it being spoken, that the bed was for bouncing. They made camp instead on the floor, laying out the feather mattress and the furs. Over the top Robin had hung blankets to create a tent, not unlike his shelter in Summerswood. They lay inside on their stomachs, being careful with a storm-lamp they had found in the basement, and in that cocoon of flickering light Marian opened one of her mother’s books.
    ‘First, Heracles and his labours. No, no, even better – Theseus and the Labyrinth, this is my
absolute
favourite favourite, ready …?’
    Marian read of Theseus and Ariadne and the Minotaur, while Robin listened, enraptured. Next she read of Jupiter and Ares and all the gods of Olympus and of the heroes forced to endure their games. Until this moment Robin had little idea what wonders existed beyond this valley, and now here those wonders were, unfolding, worlds within worlds, and he felt he was soaring above it all, looking down upon glittering golden cities and mystical mountains and magical desert realms.
    Marian read deep into the night, until she was tripping over the words and her head began to make forward nods. She closed the book and extinguished the lamp. But it would be hours yet before they slept. Instead they lay on their backs and whispered in the dark, taking turns to yawn, and they were still whispering when the birds began calling in Summerswood, announcing the arrival of dawn.

IV. Robin and Marian
    ‘L ook what I found,’ Marian said. ‘Just the thing for you.’
    They were in the storeroom, searching through the chests and the boxes. Scattered around Marian were myriad objects: a candelabra; a brass speaking-horn; a chequered game-board of some kind.
    Now she was holding up a hunting cloak. It was made of Turkish cloth, thick woven against the cold and the damp of the woods. It was the deep grey colour of dusk. Robin shrugged out of his own ragged cloak and pulled on the new one. It slumped off his shoulders and fell further than his feet, pooling a little on the ground.
    ‘Perfect,’ Marian said. ‘Time to cast off your wildling disguise. It’s up to me to make you civilized. Robin, look at all this treasure, and it’s all ours!’
    He opened a cedar chest. Inside were mantels and kerchiefs and capes, and buried at the bottom was a book – this one small and unadorned. As soon as he lifted it out Marian was at his side, taking it from his hands. She laid it open and lifted her candle. Her mouth fell open.
    ‘What is it?’ Robin said. ‘More stories?’
    She turned the stiff, browning leaves. Here and there Robinsaw drawings: horned men; feathered women; scaled beasts.
    Marian licked her lips. ‘It’s … potions,’ she said. ‘It’s … spells and charms and … poisons! This must have been my mother’s too, she knew all about these things. Robin, listen to this: “Curse of the Pharaohs. A hedge-witch conjuring, possessed by the ancients. May he who is cursed suffer chill and itch and sores and mental fits, may he lose his wits, his home, his possessions, may he not walk the ground lest his feet become fire, may his humours boil and his vapours congeal and his phallus shrivel …” It goes on that way for a whole page. Our enemies beware!’
    She continued studying the grimoire, her breath misting in the candlelight. They had slept clean through the daylight hours and now the sun had set and the air was growing cold.
    Robin went to the basement to collect firewood and carried it to the main chamber. He used his hunting knife to whittle kindling and soon he had a blaze crackling in the hearth.
    A squeaking noise caught his attention. He went to the window. A lumbering figure was approaching the tower. The