Post of the Month

~ May 2011 ~

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Moth & his men ~ Written by Annie.  Posted on the HoS Yahoo group March 2010.

Night fell easily on the Lincoln woods, much easier than it had in Northumbria or the borders of Scotland, Moth thought as he walked around the perimeter of the clearing he had settled on for camp this night. The night was warm, and there was a breeze that washed over the trees, made them sway gently.

This clearing had been a good place to strike camp. It provided dry shelter and there was plenty of wood around for burning. A fire had already been lit some time ago; the ground been cleared and a fire wall of large stones built around it. Fat pork had been speared suspended above the fire and now was crackling as it cooked. Moth cast his eye about the clearing; his men had already made themselves at home - several thick sheepskins had been flung down by the fire, a bucket of water had been fetched from the nearby stream, stolen manchet loaves lay scattered on a piece of sacking by the fire, along with several full aleskins, and a couple of horn beakers laying on their sides.

It was going to be a good night, Moth thought now, full of tasty rewards. It was almost like old times, being back here. He cast his mind back to Adam Bell's time, and the time they'd camped in Sherwood. Plenty of food and ale then, too.

It had been right to return to this area. Too much of a hard life in Northumbria and the Scottish border. Not enough cover, and not enough food. Now, they had plenty of both.

Jud fell into pace beside Moth as he walked around the edge of the clearing. "Another day gone," said Jud, "and no word from HIM."

Moth knew full well Jud meant Gisbourne. "He'll send us word," Moth insisted.

"You sure about that?" said Jud. "Who's to say he's forgotton us?"

Moth glanced sideways at the man. Jud was a balding individual in his late forties, with several missing teeth. He had been in Adam Bell's band with Moff, and so knew all the past history there. Over the past couple of years, Jud had become Moff's right-hand man when Moth had taken over the band, helping Moth to keep it knit together.

A Nottingham man originally, Jud had worked at Nottingham Castle as a groom before joining Adam Bell's band. Moth remembered Jud from three years ago. He had turned up at Bell's camp in Sherwood, wanting to join the band when they had captured the Sheriff's nephew. He had stolen some gilded harness trappings from my lord Gisbourne and sold them on for the price of a few ales - and had been found out. He had fled before being captured and hung.

Moth was sure that Gisbourne would remember Jud if he saw him. My lord Gisbourne seemed to have a long and clear memory if it was anything to do with his beloved stables and horses, thought Moth now.

"He ain't forgotton," Moth said irritably.

There came a swish of bushes from behind them, and Moth and Jud sharply turned as a small wiry individual entered the clearing.

"Anything?" Moth demanded immediately of Hoppy, who had been sent to scout the surrounding area.

Hoppy, another of Adam Bell's original band, a dark man with a long narrow face and sharp eyes, shook his head. He hailed from Yorkshire and poaching had been his sideline ever since he had been a child. As an clumsy adolescent, he had caught his foot in one of his own traps he had been setting, and lost several toes. Hence his name, for he limped, but it didn't seem to stop him running when there was trouble, Moth thought sarcastically now.

"Nothing," said Hoppy. "All's quiet out there. No trouble. Best to put someone on watch tonight, though."

"So we're still waiting?" Gid said from across the clearing, overhearing. Where he bent over the fire, he frowned at the rich pork meat dripping fat from the skewer.

Moth watched him, trying to gauge the man's mood. Gid was a thickset swarthy individual who had been working as a tanner up in a Northern town Moth and his gang passed through. He had strangled his wife when he had been in a drunken rage, and fleeing justice, had joined Moth's band then.

Don't we just pick 'em, Moth thought irritably now, watching Gid. He was never too sure of Gid, who would stick a knife in you soon as look at you, if you displeased him, but the man had some useful skills. He had worked as a sailor, plying a trade route from the North East coast of England down to London on a wool boat. Furthermore, he knew how to butcher and cook the meat they either hunted or stole. A townsman, not a villager, he looked down on all villagers with a cold eye, considering them beneath him.

"We can afford to wait," answered Moth easily, seeking to humour the man. "Got all we need here at the present."

Hoppy huffed. "We haven't got women."

"Got food an' ale. Two out of three ain't bad," Moth replied shortly, and strode over to the fire.

Hoppy looked down at his fingers and tried to count on them.

Moth warmed his hands over the blaze of the fire, then where he stood, looked through the leaping flames at where Malcolm stood opposite.

"What's up with you, Scot?" Moth demanded.

The tall, gangly ginger-haired youth shook his head sullenly in response as he stood over the fire, arms folded, staring down into the flames. Moth watched him carefully - this was the newest addition to his band - the newest surviving addition, that was. They had picked Malcolm up on the Scottish border during their last raid on a border village before deciding to head South. The lad had been accused - falsely he still insisted fervently - of stealing a sheep, and had been due to have been taken to the nearest town the next morning and there hung. In the commotion of the raid on his village, he had escaped from the barn where he had been held and by chance as he was running away he had encountered Moth and decided that the band was his best means of survival as he was already sought by the law.

Jud wandered over to the fire. "He misses his little friend Duncan," he observed with a sneer at Malcolm, who scowled back at him.

Moth rolled his eyes in exasperation. Duncan, not much older than Malcolm at seventeen, and a fellow Scot, had been one of those caught near Elsdon by Gisbourne and sentenced to hang.

"Ain't nothin' you can do for Duncan," said Moth to Malcolm, "just forget about him. The stupid bastard got himself caught, didn't he. You know the rules here - if you're caught, don't expect yerself to be rescued by us. We're not bleedin' Robin Hood's men."

"Be glad you weren't one of them caught, Scot," Murdach said from by the fire as he slid the side of pork off its skewer over the fire and took his knife to it to carve off thick gelatinous hunks, throwing them down onto a large wooden platter by his feet.

Moth nodded thoughtfully and watched Murdach. A big strong spare man in his mid forties, with big muscular forearms and hands capable of choking the life out of someone. He had once been a butcher, a slaughterer, and Moth could well believe the man had had that profession. He had a thick, low, clipped Cumbrian accent and the odour of sweat and leather and woodsmoke constantly hung around him. He had fallen in with Moth's band when they had ventured into Cumbria, on their way up to the Scottish borders, almost three years ago.

Malcolm glared at Murdach and drew back from the fire; Moth watched the interaction between the two with some mild amusement but also watched Murdach warily. He knew that if any dirty work needed to be doing Murdach would do it, and for that talent the man was valuable to the band, but even Moth knew better than to sleep with his back turned to Murdach. Murdach was a law unto himself. In three years he had not formed any friendships with the others in the band, and no-one had attempted to even try and bond with him. There was something about Murdach that made even they, mostly hardened criminals, keep their distance from him.

Moth was well aware that his quick wits and ability to sum up people well was what kept him leader of this band, because the one thing a brute like Murdach didn't have was a quick wit - he was more like a sledgehammer when you needed him thought Moth now - and so he kept his place over such men - but he still did not sleep with his back to Murdach at night.

He half turned from the fire as Yannick and Cole entered camp.

"Here. We took this." Yannick tossed a full aleskin onto one of the sheepskins by the fire and sat down beside it. He was a short, chubby, grubby individual in grubby clothes. From Roscoff in Brittany, his grasp of English was not good, and he made the minimum amount of words do. When he did speak, it was with a slow, heavy accent, belying his almost innocent childlike round moon shaped face, dark blue eyes, several missing front teeth and scruffy dark blond hair. But Yannick was no innocent, Moth knew well.

Moth eyed the aleskin suspiciously. "Where'd you get that from?"

"Robbed a woodsman," Cole smirked as he came up to the fire. "Well....he put up a bit of a fight first, but we soon did for him."

"You killed for a bleedin' skin of ale...." Moth said.

Cole, short and lightly built, shrugged. "We wanted ale, he had it. He refused to give it up, so we killed him." His hazel eyes widened in his narrow face as he faced down Moth. "Well, he was coming near the camp - you want him to have found us?"

"No," Moth said shortly.

"So." Cole sat down beside Yannick. "We had to fix him." He scratched his scruffy dark head and grinned at Moth. "We done more than HIM today, anyway," he nodded towards Malcolm with disdain; Malcolm merely scowled back.

"What did you do with the body, Cole?" Gid asked.

Cole helped himself to some of the pork from the platter. "Dragged it under a bush. Daresay it'll be found in a couple of days when it begins to stink. But we'll not be here, then."

"We going into Sherwood?" Yannick looked inquiringly up at Moth.

Moth tossed a few slices of pork onto a dented pewter plate and straightened up to stand and eat by the fire. "Not till I've met with Gisbourne."

"Still say he's forgotten us," Jud said, taking up an aleskin and taking a swig from it.

Malcolm suddenly swung away from the fire, instantly alert. "Someone's coming this way on a horse!" he hissed.

Immediately the men at the fireside drew their knives and swords; Cole jumped to his feet, and Moth's first thought that it was Gisbourne who had somehow tracked them down - but as the horse's head and then body appeared through a thin screen of bushes, his heart sank, for although the hair of the rider was fair, it was not Gisbourne.

"It's only Geerhardt," Hoppy said with disgust.

The pudgy youth slid down from his horse in the middle of the clearing and turned to face Moth as Moth strode the few yards over to him.

"Where the bleedin hell did you get THAT from?" Moth demanded, jerking a thumb at the horse who snorted and restlessly shied at the sudden movement.

Geerhardt hung onto the reins and looked at Moth. With his solemn face, pale blue eyes, thatch of blond hair, eyelashes and eyebrows so pale that you could hardly see they were there, he looked a mild-mannered individual. Indeed he was, until you realised he had been spoilt by aged parents and liked his own way.

"'Tis a horse belonging to our neighbour in Lincoln," he replied.

"So you been visiting your parents," Moth said. "I TOLD you to stay away from them! Don't want anyone tryin' to follow you back to us!"

Geerhardt shrugged. "I wanted food. And on the way out, I saw our neighbours horse tied up, so I took it. Serve him right - he was always a mean spirited devil who whipped me once when I was a child."

Moth was still not sure about Geerhardt. He had only joined the band two weeks ago. He was the son of a Dutch silversmith in Lincoln, from good family stock, as far as Moth knew. He had got into trouble at a Lincoln alehouse - something to do with a prostitute as far as Moth had gleaned - and had fled into the woods to try and remain outside the law for a year and a day. The band had stumbled across him and tried to rob him, but he had made a good argument for him joining them, and so they had accepted him, although they still did not completely trust him. Moth sensed in the youth a cold callous soul in which pure evil could work. He had already shown a liking for watching someone being tortured to death. It seemed to fascinate him, beyond any fascination which was normal.

Geerhardt cast a sidelong glance at the rest of the men grouped round the fire. "I have news of our friends who were caught by the village of Elsdon," he announced.

"Well?" Jud demanded.

"They are to hang in a week's time, it is said. In Nottingham's market square. The news is all over Lincoln." Geerhardt tied the horse's reins to a nearby tree and wandered over to the fireside to help himself to some of the roast meat that Gid was still carving off the bone.

Moth resisted a slight smile to himself, having already known for days what Gisbourne would do to them. "They're done for, then."

"We could rescue them-" Malcolm burst out with restlessly.

Moth irritably waved his drawn dagger at Malcolm; the blade flashed in the light. "What do you think we are - bleeding Robin Hood and his men? We can't just saunter into Nottingham on execution day and fight all the guards and pluck them from the gallows!"

Malcolm frowned at his leader. "Then you ask my lord Gisbourne to spare their lives or-"

Moth with narrowed eyes faced Malcolm across the leaping flames of the fire. "Or WHAT?"

Malcolm's voice quavered slightly under Moth's glare, but kept his head held defiantly high. "Or we will not do as he bid."

In three strides, Moth was round the fire, and had laid Malcolm flat on his back on the ground with a heavy punch to the jaw. Cole and Yannick sniggered from where they sat, looking on, whilst Malcolm sat up, rubbing his jaw and stared up at Moth who stood over him.

"You will do as he bid, 'cos it be what I bid, too!" Moth yelled at Malcolm. "You hear me?"

"Aye," Malcolm muttered sullenly.

Moth subsided in his anger and paced back around the fire. "Look, it was hard enough gettin' meself pardoned, and I only managed it cos we'll be doin' Gisbourne's dirty work for him, tracking down Huntingdon and his men in Sherwood an' finishing them off. Gisbourne wants to keep his hands clean at the moment, he being the Earl's acknowledged bastard. So he's gonna let us dirty ours wth the blood of Huntingdon and his friends, instead."

"We're better off without your little friend Duncan and the others, Scot," Murdach growled. "They were useless, which is why they got caught so easily."

"Look," said Moth, as Malcolm staggered to his feet, rubbing his punched jaw, "Gisbourne's got his job to do. Same as us. Just let him do it."

"And us?" Yannick queried where he sat crosslegged by the fire on the sheepskin, munching on pork.

Moth sheathed his dagger. "Oh, we'll do our job, don't worry. Once we're in Sherwood. We'll find 'em. Then they're gonna pay. Huntingdon, Scarlet. The lot of them."

And he looked round at his men and grinned.