Lords of the Greenwood by Chris Thorndycroft
Publication Date: January 16, 2018
eBook; 469 Pages
ASIN: B07958RTQS
Genre: Historical Fiction/Medieval
Nottinghamshire, 1264.
England is on the brink of civil war. The barons are in revolt against King Henry III. Such times suit Roger Godberd, sergeant in the garrison at Nottingham Castle. After throwing in their lot with the barons who embark on a bloody campaign for control of England, Roger and his companions are betrayed and seek refuge in Sherwood Forest. There they begin their new lives as outlaws evading their old enemy, the High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire.
Yorkshire, 1320.
Wrongfully accused of murder, young Robert Hood of Wakefield finds himself outlawed with only his bitter enemy Will Shacklock for company. Taking to the woods of Barnsdale, Robert and Will agree on an uneasy truce and begin recruiting a band of robbers fleeing the chaos of the Earl of Lancaster’s rebellion against King Edward II. Eventually drawing the attention of the king himself, Robert and his band are given a choice; be hanged as common criminals or enter the king’s service as agents of the crown…
Blending real history with medieval ballads this is the entwined saga of two men, separated by a generation, united by legend, who inspired the tales of England’s famous hooded outlaw.
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Excerpt:
The sheriff thought the potter’s reek had been
bad. That was as roses to the stench of the man who sat on the edge of the
table in his Great Hall. It was a rotten smell; of fungus and tree sap and
mouldering leaves with a hint of carcasses. He was popping grapes into his
mouth and washing them down with wine which he managed to spill with frequency
down the front of his already soiled shirt.
He was
the most extraordinary man the sheriff had ever seen. He wore no maille or
armour of any sort. Simple yeoman’s garments long overdue a soak served as his
underlayer and a patchwork hide cloak hung from his shoulders. It was crudely
stitched and poorly cured and the occasional tufts of black hair suggested that
it had originally come from a horse. This assumption was confirmed by its hood
which had two long ears that hung down the man’s back, shrivelled and twisted.
By far
the most bizarre part of the rogue’s attire was his helmet which he had removed
upon entering the hall and placed on the table where its unblinking gaze kept
catching the sheriff’s eye. It was a battered old thing crested with the skull
of a young foal. The bottom tip of it pointed down and formed part of the nasal
and, when it was placed on its owner’s head, it gave the man a nightmarish
appearance that smacked uncomfortably of the pagan.
“I must
say, you come highly recommended,” the sheriff told the man, not knowing why he
felt the urge to flatter him. There was something unnerving about the man that
suggested he should be kept on good terms.
“I’m a
hunter,” said the man, wiping his mouth on a dirty sleeve, “and I keep hunting
until I get my kill.” He set the wine goblet down on the table and grinned
wide. His blackened teeth were not a sight for a weak stomach. “But my services
are at a premium, sheriff.”
“Yes, as
to that, what figure were you considering?”
“Two
hundred pounds for Hood’s head, body and soul.”
The
sheriff snorted. “Two hundred pounds? For a simple bounty hunting job?”
“Simple
jobs are for simple men. And you have those by the score. No, this hobhood is something special. The name
is bestowed upon every fool who finds himself on the wrong side of the law with
nothing but the forest to keep him from a hanging but, every once in a while,
one comes along truly deserving of the name. I understand he caused you some
considerable personal inconvenience.”
There
was a half-smile on those ugly lips and the sheriff stiffened. He didn’t care
how much this bounty hunter unnerved him, he would take no cheek from a
yeoman-turned-thief taker. The memory of his ransoming still burned his pride
sorely. Half the shire was privy to it and his name was accompanied by a
chuckle whenever it was spoken from tavern to tannery. But by God, he would
rectify that soon enough. There would be precious few chuckles once Robert Hood
and his band were dangling in York’s marketplace.
“Fifty
pounds,” he said. “For the whole band.”
The
bounty hunter sighed and slid down from the table. He was a short man but stout
and swarthy. He set down his wine goblet. “I’ll come back when you are a little
more serious.”
“Very
well, I’ll pay twenty pounds for him dead and fifty for him alive. Plus ten for
each of his band, dead or alive, your choice. That’s a hundred and fifty for
the whole band if all goes to plan.”
The
bounty hunter considered this. “Done. I’ll need men.”
“How
many?”
“Six
should do it. They shall be my hounds to flush out the game bird for my arrow.
Their salaries will be paid by you and not subtracted from my bounty.”
“Fine. I
expect quick work from you, sir. My acquaintance in York says that you
apprehended that rogue money lender with a certain degree of finesse and
efficiency.”
“He was
still in the city, it has to be said,” the man replied. “And an old Jew does
not provide so much sport as a fully-grown hobhood. This chase promises to be
most entertaining.”
“Just as
long as it doesn’t take too long. I want Hood hanged as soon as humanly
possible. Go now, and wait in my guest quarters. I will have my sergeant Oderic
select six men suited to the task. And then you are to be on your way, bounty
hunter.”
The man
grinned wide, retrieved his extraordinary helmet and slunk out of the hall
without a word. The sheriff frowned. It was not so much that the man was
disrespectful; rather he was indifferent to authority. He clearly saw no reason
to bow or ‘sire’ the sheriff and the whole exchange had been as of one between
two equals. That kind of confidence in a yeoman unsettled the sheriff but not
half so much as his own reluctance to chastise the man for it.
“Saints
preserve us, what a reek your new friend carries with him!” Constance said as
she entered the hall.
The
sheriff entertained the thought that she had been listening from the screens
passage. Sly wench! How many times has
she played that game?
“I’ll
have the servants burn some incense if it distresses you, my sweet,” he
replied.
“No
matter, I am riding out shortly with Bess to give alms to the poor at the
chapel at Yeadon. Have you your bounty hunter?”
“I
believe I have. If he is as good as his reputation he will bring Hood to me by
the end of the month.”
“Are you
so sure that outlaws are your primary concern, husband? After all, your friend
William de Aune is in dire need of reinforcements at Tickhill if he is to
rebuff Lancaster.”
The
sheriff grimaced. Under pressure from the barons, the king had reluctantly
banished the Despensers last August. In January the king had rescinded their
banishment and they had returned, enraging Marcher Lords such as Roger de
Mortimer and the northern barons. Lancaster had moved on Tickhill Castle and the
sheriff had received orders to stop any Marcher Lords who might lend their aid
to Lancaster from entering Yorkshire.
“The
stalemate at Tickhill shows no sign of breaking,” he said. “There is little I
can do to help de Aune. I need men to uphold the law and I have few enough to
spare as it is. The best I can do is to keep the king’s peace in Yorkshire.
Civil war is breaking out in our midst and we can’t allow criminals to take
advantage of the situation.”
“Well,
not common criminals, of course,” Constance replied. “Just the likes of John de
Mowbray, Roger de Clifford and their ilk. William de Aune too, for that matter.
He has all but stripped Doncaster of supplies.”
“Supplies
intended to help him withstand the siege,” the sheriff replied irritably.
“Really, Constance, I sometimes wonder where your allegiances lie. To even
mention de Aune in the same breath as those dogs should be punishable as
treason.”
“And yet
I see very little difference in their actions other than in whose name they do
them.”
“And if
I didn’t know better, I could swear that you think to turn my mind from hunting
down those vile outlaws. Are you sure the presence of that oaf, John of
Holderness, in their ranks has not softened you to them? He did cripple my old
steward in defence of your name, after all. Or so you would have me believe. Do
you feel you owe the man a debt?”
“Husband,
you let your injured pride speak instead of your sense. Would you be so
insistent on hunting these creatures had they not held you for ransom?”
“My
pride is never better, I assure you. Outlaws should be hanged, that has always
been my mind on the matter.”
“Well,
we had better hope that this bounty hunter of yours makes good on his promise.
For the safety of the shire, of course. What did you say his name was?”
“Gisburn.
Guy de Gisburn.”
About the Author:
Chris Thorndycroft is a British writer of historical fiction, horror and fantasy. His early short stories appeared in magazines and anthologies such as Dark Moon Digest and American Nightmare. His first novel under his own name was A Brother's Oath; the first book in the Hengest and Horsa Trilogy. He also writes under the pseudonym P. J. Thorndyke.
For more information, please visit Chris Thorndycroft's website. You can also find him on Twitter and Goodreads.
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Review at Katie’s Book Cave
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Review at WS Momma Readers Nook
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Review at Historical Fiction with Spirit
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