Free Child of the May by Theresa Tomlinson Page A

up beside the sweeping branches of the great yews. It was mens voices that they’d heard, but pitifully groaning and whimpering. Then Magda heard Marian calling for food and water.
    They pushed the branches aside and saw the most dreadful sight. The soft green turf was littered with wounded men. Marian and Eleanor strode back and forth amongst them with water, clean rags and ointments. Veronica was there, her habit dirty and torn. She saw the two girls and beckoned them through.
    “What is it?” Magda asked, her voice shaking with fear. “Is my father . . .?”
    “He’s got a clout and a wounded leg,” Veronica told her quickly. “But he’ll be fine. Now come, we need your help! They’ve struggled back without food or water. Can you run to the convent and get the sisters to come? Ask Sister Rosamund to bring her bundles and potions. We need food and ale and clean rags!”
    Magda sighed at the thought of the journey she’d just made, but she nodded. “Is the lady saved?” she asked.
    Robert’s bitter voice answered her. “She is not!”
    Magda ran back faster than ever and brought the nuns and their supplies. Isabel had been visiting Sister Rosamund and she insisted that she came along with the nuns to help. They worked hard through the rest of the day and at last by nightfall the men were all fed and made as comfortable as possible, their wounds cleaned and bandaged and wrapped in warm rags.
    “It’s a good thing we’re not caught like this in freezing winter weather,” Eleanor said, building up her fire.
    Robert sat hunched and gloomy by the hearthside, refusing to lie down and rest though he’d a long sword cut on his good cheek and painful smashed ribs.
    “What’s this mut?” he asked, pointing at Fetcher, who’d crept quietly into the shadows and was watching the activity with new fear.
    Brother James turned to look into the darkness at the edges of the hut.
    “That’s my dog Fetcher.” Joanna spoke out fearlessly. “Who are you?”
    Robert answered through gritted jaws. “I am . . . I was the Hooded One.”

15
The Knights of Saint Lazarus

    Slowly, bit by bit the story was told. The men had made camp by the Great North Road and set a lookout for the closed wagon that would carry Matilda de Braose and her son. They’d just begun to run out of food when three closed wagons, escorted by the wolfpack, were spied. They’d hesitated, but only for a moment. Though the King’s mercenaries were heavily armed, Robert’s lads were fired up and they guessed they could outnumber them.
    Robert led a fierce attack, but while the first wagon was hurried on, the second two proved to be packed with armed footsoldiers who leapt out onto the outlaws. They had made a bitter fight of it, but the rebels had not had a chance against so many. FitzRanulf had ridden away fast with the leading wagon. John had found himself in the middle of thick fighting, unable to leave his friends to pursue his own quarrel. Fifteen lads had been killed outright and every one of the others carried some hurt. Though the women worked hard to save them, five more died in the night. One of them was Muchlyn.
    John sat by the fire with Robert, growling out his anger.
    “The blasted coward! Could not stay and fight but runs off, leaving his men to do his dirty work.”
    Robert’s face was grey, only his scar standing out livid, and streaked with fresh cuts. Somehow John knew that his friend needed comfort more than he.
    “We made ourselves felt!” he said. “Much would be proud to go in such a fight. We cut that gang of mercenaries down to half!”
    Robert would not answer or allow himself to be tended.
    Marian walked back and forth with a face like stone. She worked all day and most of the night, feeding, cleaning, making up simples and poultices. Magda and Joanna did all they could to help; the miserable plight of the men gave them the energy to carry on with little food or sleep. Magda did not even complain at the hated job of