The Iron Castle (Outlaw Chronicles) Read Online Free PDF Page A

food – fresh bread, soft cheese, smoked ham and the light floury yellow apples of Normandy – and we ate outside at a scatter of tables in the spring sunshine, drinking flagon after flagon of tart cider as the shadows lengthened.
    ‘Robin is in Rouen with the King,’ said Little John. ‘The Wolves are scattered about Normandy – either patrolling the marches or kicking their heels doing garrison duty in the frontier castles.’
    ‘The Wolves?’ I asked.
    ‘These ugly buggers,’ said John, jerking his head at the men-at-arms who were by now dispersed around the tavern yard in various states of relaxation, some sleeping, some rolling dice, others merely drinking and talking. A couple of them, hearing John, threw back their heads and gave a fairly good imitation of a wolf’s howl. I noticed then that many of them had scraps of grey fur attached to armour and clothing, and some had wolf tails hanging from shields or helmets. But they seemed a disciplined lot, on the whole, for what they were – paid mercenaries. I could not sneer at them for I was now one too – Little John had presented me with another purse of silver from Robin and shown me a strong-box in the baggage that contained a hoard of coin I was to use to pay the men – two shillings and sixpence a day, for each mounted man.
    ‘They are calling him the Wolf Lord,’ John continued, smiling fondly. ‘On account of his banner. It’s his new
nom de guerre
– and so his men are the Company of Wolves. You remember Vim? Well, Robin found him in a tavern in Calais, drunk and penniless, and sobered him up and set him to recruiting fighting men.’
    I remembered Vim – or Wilhelmus of Mechlin as he was more properly called – a leathery Flemish mercenary who had taken part in a bloody adventure with Robin, John and me in the southern lands two years before. ‘I thought he had his heart set on becoming a wealthy Bordeaux wine merchant,’ I said.
    ‘Maybe he did,’ replied John, ‘but he found he had no head for the trickeries of trade, and he liked drinking his wines much more than selling them. He’s one of Robin’s lieutenants now. A good fighting man – when he’s sober.’
    ‘How is Robin?’
    ‘He’s all right – given that he has to lick that royal bastard’s crusted arsehole day and night. He’s set things up so that he’s making a little bit on the side, with various, um, enterprises.’
    My heart sank at this. I knew Robin of old. We had fallen out several times over his ‘enterprises’ – a polite name for outright robbery and extortion. I had hoped that now he was no longer an outlaw, that he was once again a well-rewarded royal servant, he would have given up these ruthless money-gathering games. Something of this must have shown in my face, for John said, ‘Don’t get all high and mighty, Alan. We all fight for money these days, even you. None of us has lily-white hands. I don’t. I know damned well you don’t either. And if Robin can accumulate a pile silver, we will all benefit when he comes in to his own as Earl of Locksley. He wants to give you another manor, did you know that? No? I didn’t think so. Somewhere plump, and closer to him in Yorkshire. Bear that in mind when you scowl so reprovingly at his actions.’
    ‘So what exactly is he doing?’ I asked, keeping my tone neutral. John smiled like a cream-fed cat. ‘Oh, it’s good, it’s very much our Robin’s old style: he is generously offering his personal protection to Holy Mother Church, and all its vast properties, across Normandy. If a rich monastery or abbey wants to avoid being ravaged by roaming bands of Godless men-at-arms, packs of lawless mercenaries, for instance, it has to pay Robin a fee in silver. Good, isn’t it?’
    ‘And what does the King have to say about this?’
    ‘Oh him,’ said John, with deep contempt. ‘That ginger shit-weasel doesn’t care what Robin does as long as our lord provides him with plenty of fighting men. Doesn’t