Rise of the Wolf by Steven A McKay Page B

them. “Will the Prior take him in again?”
    “Ach, he'll be fine,” Will waved his spoon confidently. “Tuck knows how to look after himself.”
    “I hope you're right,” Allan-a-Dale replied, wincing as the hot food scalded the roof of his mouth.
    “I wish he was still here,” Edmond mumbled, eyes downcast, chewing on a hunk of bread that he'd dipped into his stew.
    The comment was met with silence, the rest of the men agreeing whole-heartedly with it.
    “I wish he was still here too,” John growled, after spooning some of the food into his mouth. “Tuck could make much tastier stew than this piss-water you've cooked up for us.”
    Everyone laughed, even Edmond, glad to avert the melancholy that was so easy to fall into living out here in the forest as a wolf's head.
    “He'll be fine,” Robin said authoritatively. “Honestly, have no fears for Tuck. He used to earn his living as a wrestler; he can take care of himself.”
    Talk turned to other things as the stew – rather more appetising than John had suggested – filled their hungry bellies and a new cask of freshly-brewed Penysale beer was broached. Robin felt instinctively that he was right: Tuck would be fine. The portly friar could fight like a Templar, yes, but he also had a likeable charisma that often acted better than any heater shield or buckler.
    The outlaw leader stood and made his way over to the big cooking pot to help himself to more food, smiling in thanks as Edmond grabbed his mug for a refill. Aye, Friar Tuck would be fine.
    He wondered how his family fared, though.
     
    * * *
     
    It had been a while since Marjorie and Matilda had been able to spend some time training together. They both had chores to do at home and at work helping their parents in their own occupations.
    That morning had dawned cool and misty, but Marjorie knew that the sun, once it was fully up, would burn the haze away and it would be a fine afternoon, perfect for sparring.
    “Can we finish our jobs as soon as possible today,” she asked Martha, her mother. “I'd like to go fishing later on, if it's nice.”
    Martha smiled. She was very close to her daughter, especially since Robin wasn't around much any more. “Of course, that sounds like a good idea. Let's get it all done and make the most of any sunshine – God knows we haven't had much of it lately. Here.” She handed the girl an old basket. “Fetch some fresh rushes for the floor. Try and cut some sweet flowers too – they make the place smell nice.”
    Marjorie grabbed the basket and a knife from the table and hurried off.
    It was still early but the men were already off ploughing the fields or mending the fences that penned in their livestock.
    She waved cheerily to one of the neighbours, a pleasant old woman with small eyes that the children called Hogface, and shooed a barking dog that ran along after her for a time hoping for scraps.
    She reached Ings Beck, breathlessly startling a kingfisher which took flight, then  brought out the knife to collect the long green rushes that grew in abundance there. The blade was fine and sharp and it didn't take her long to fill the basket. As she made her way back home she kept an eye out for wildflowers or herbs which she plucked and tossed into the basket.
    Her favourite was lavender, and she knew where some grew not too far off, but she wanted to finish her chores so made do with the daisies and buttercups that were so readily available along the road. They might not have strong, sweet odours, but at least their colour would brighten the room.
    Her mother had swept the dirty old rushes out by the time she returned so, together, they spread the fresh ones on the floor of the house, smiling contentedly at one another when they were done.
    “Your da will be happy when he gets home,” Martha nodded. “Now. Since it's going to be such a nice day, according to you, we should wash the bedding and towels so they get a chance to dry off in the sun. Come on.”
    Not