Lloyd knew eyes followed his every move. He tried to be nonchalant as he fingered his goatee in contemplation. The fire's embers threw off a glow only within a few feet, its heat illusionary. But the hare he cooked on a makeshift spit was real and its pungent aroma enough to attract the company of strangers. Lloyd wanted company. He turned the spit ever so slowly, his lanky frame relaxed, yet ready for action at a moment's notice.
        "There's enough for a friend if he's hungry." He looked to where he thought he'd heard a stomach growl. There was movement, as if something stiffened. Silence stretched as Lloyd's charity was considered. Then the bushes parted and a huge form approached the fire.
        Now Lloyd had seen a good number of men in his twenty-five years, all ages and sizes. This man looked impressive. The figure stood a few inches short of seven feet, shoulders the breadth of a boulder, legs big as tree trunks and arms... well, arms to match.
        In a way, he seemed familiar to Lloyd. The man walked to the fire and stared at the roasting food. His belly groaned softly, but he remained mute.
        Lloyd broke off a hindquarter of the cooked hare and held it up. The man took the meat in slow motion as if dazed, put it in his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, and stared at the fire. Lloyd beckoned him to sit. The man sat heavily and sighed, the meat bone already bare in his fingers.
        The silence in Sherwood Forest remained unbroken. Spring in this year of 1056 had brought an unseasonable warmth after the winter's north wind had changed to one that gusted from the south. The land of England woke early but the plans of men had changed, some for the good, while others carried an evil that would affect events sooner than expected. The desperate men of Sherwood Forest thought the warm wind carried a promise of better things. At least the weather wouldn't be against them.
        "Traveled far?" Lloyd asked as he handed over another piece of hare.
        The big man looked at the meat and something thawed. Tears fell down his cheeks as he took the food. He tried to hold back his emotions but touched at this kindness from a stranger a sob escaped. He gave in and broke down completely, head in hands.
        Lloyd turned away to give the big man a sense of private space. It didn't help. He finally moved closer to the fellow and roughly patted his shoulder and murmured, "It's all right, it's all right."
        Lloyd surprised himself. He considered himself to be a toughened--even calloused--man. When the giant entered the circle of his campfire, a plot to pull some advantage from this stranger had formed in his mind. Yet the fellow seemed so harmless and, by the looks of his ragged tunic and well worn leggings, penniless as well.
        When the giant recovered his composure Lloyd resumed his seat and pretended the outburst never happened. They both again fell silent. Lloyd reached in a gunnysack and pulled out a loaf of white bread. He set it in the hot ashes to warm. He glanced at his guest to see his reaction to the kind of bread only the well-to-do ever saw.
        He brought out a skin bottle and sloshed the contents. "Thirsty? I don't know your name. I'm Lloyd."
        The big man's face lit up. "I'm Herbert. They call me John Ox 'cause I can lift like an ox. You can call me John. Is that mead?"
        Lloyd hid a smile. He could use this gentle giant. "Why don't I call you Herbert? I like that name. This is ale, good ale. I scrounged it myself."
        Herbert reached for the skin, his eyes twinkling with life. "Thank you. I'll be Herbert to you. I like you, Lloyd." He put the skin's spout in his mouth and squeezed out a fair amount of ale. Done, he wiped the end and gave it back.
        "Traveled far, Herbert?" He poked the loaf with a stick and lifted it from the hot ashes. He dropped it in front of him and sliced off a couple of pieces. He got some lard from the sack, spread it on the bread and passed one to Herbert.
        A pained expression crossed Herbert's face. "I killed a man."
        "Oh? Where?" Lloyd noted the width of his shoulders.
        "Back in Graft. He won't hurt Mama no more."
        "Well, Herbert. I've done stuff, bad stuff in my.... former life. It ain't nice but sometimes its gotta be done." Lloyd looked searchingly at Herbert. "You know, I'm from Graft."
        Herbert ran a muscular arm across his mouth. "I don't know you. A fire burned his place, a big place. Him in it. I put him in the fireplace, up the chimney. His men tried to stop me. I was mad. He hurt Mama."
        Lloyd sat stunned. He realized he knew of Herbert from way back, had seen him around Graft. Lloyd even knew Herbert's father. "I won't tell no one. I know who you mean, he's Blake. Lord Blake. Some people think it's good he's dead. He was a hard man, but he should've been careful. I heard about your Mama. I weren't there though, I've been away." Lloyd spoke in a monotone as he recited the facts.
        The truth was, Lloyd used to work for Lord Blake. He was Blake's steward. He'd returned from a trip to London for the Lord and found his livelihood a mixture of charred timbers and bones. Now he remembered Herbert. His story was the talk of the town.

*****

Herbert grew up on the outskirts of Graft, a thriving town of more than two hundred souls. A farming community, it marketed vegetables like beets and turnips to bigger towns, along with barley and oats for sale to the inns in Holbeach on the east coast and further north. Graft was famous as far south as London because it boasted The Rogues Tavern, an inn and stable run by the infamous Harry Baley of ill repute.
        This tavernkeeper had his finger on the pulse of the entire north, excluding the city of Holbeach. His intrigues stretched as far north as York and west to Nottingham. Anything was for sale, stolen goods fenced, information paid for, and the ale... made on the premises and guaranteed to satisfy even the thirst of Old Lucifer himself.
        Besides Harry Baley, there was Merchant Sawyer. He shipped merchandise from his base store in Graft to London and up to York and back, and used the old Roman road that ran through Sherwood Forest. England was threaded by a few such roads, most of them faint tracks grown over by forests but some kept in good repair for general use. His business, and the tavernkeeper's, brought a measure of prosperity to Graft.
        Smaller tradesmen also made a living in Graft. Carpenters, a few barber-surgeons (in cut throat competition), two blacksmiths working mainly out of Baley's stables, women who worked for Merchant Sawyer in his weaving business and operated the hand looms, women who cleaned homes instead of farming, women who worked for Baley and served in his tavern (and served in his rooms for travelers).
        Herbert thrived in Graft. The bigger world of England seemed too remote and other countries non-existent. His home was a thatched cottage left to him by a drunken father. Ralf drowned in a summer flood while fishing in a rainstorm. The water rose as he lay passed out, the fish not biting.
        Herbert was freed from his father's insistence that Herbert's youth be spent laboring to insure a steady supply of alcoholic drink. No one mourned Ralf's passing, which included Herbert's mother, Marion. She was a gentle, long suffering woman blessed with a strong and loyal son but cursed with a morally weak husband. After her husband's death she gave Herbert elbow-room. She knew he'd support her and decided he had to find his own way.
        Herbert did. He found honest labor doing farm work for an old hermit living in an abandoned stone church about two leagues beyond the Welham River, north of Graft. The hermit raised chickens, a few geese, some goats and bees. The bees produced honey, and when fermented produced mead, a sugary liquor Herbert grew quite fond of. He worked with a will, even when the old hermit preached (he liked mead also) his own brand of religion that combined a mish-mash of paganism with the worship of bee-trees, plus a few Christian myths. The hermit's information had large gaps and outright lies sprinkled throughout, yet Herbert liked his undemanding ways.
        Another thing the hermit did (Herbert didn't know his name, aside from Old Man), was to entertain his young worker with tales of a mysterious 'Miracle Doctor'. Old Man would relate the tragedy of a family in need of succor, sometimes money woes or sudden sicknesses and in rare instances a reluctant maiden in want of a love potion. The Miracle Doctor, a Christ-like figure (also with long white hair and beard like the hermit), intervened when the tale reached its roughest point. Herbert always listened intently and applauded whenever the story ended happily. He was never disappointed.
        At night Herbert returned to his beloved mother. He'd drag home wood for the fire on a sledge. For supper they'd have maybe a couple of hares caught in snares he set each morning and supplemented by greens from the little garden plot she tended behind the cottage. On special occasions a plump goose graced their evening meal, donated by a grateful hermit in recognition of Herbert's faithful labor. The size and strength of Herbert made the hermit the envy of all the farmers in the area. He was known in the area, with respect, as John Ox. He accepted the name.
        Things change, however. One day in early spring, when the south wind blew weeks sooner than expected, a local thane decided to pay Herbert's mother a visit on business. His name was Lord Blake.
        He had a timbered mansion on the road before her cottage, a large single-story affair that held many rooms and covered nearly a quarter hide of land (a hide was about four acres). Stone walls and battlements were not common among the lesser Saxon nobility. A palisade of sharpened wooden stakes surrounded Blake's entire main building which acted as a deterrent to the casual burglar. His holdings included twenty-five hides of land, cattle and sheep, fields of wheat, barley, oats, wood for charcoal and many retainers who served his interests. Lord Blake was also owed debts by some of the townsfolk, a good number of whom worked his fields as indentured servants. He never forgot a favor given or a debt secured.
        Herbert's father had asked a favor of Blake his last day on earth--money for a cask of wine. The urge of drink made Ralf, a carpenter when sober, seek labor when Herbert just could not earn enough money. Ralf would drop in to see the Lord, and Blake would have him fix a door or window, build a swine trough and sometimes carve walking sticks; the kind Blake used as stupid sticks for his servants.
        That fateful day Ralf had asked outright for money from Blake. The lord knew Marion, and gave the man enough silver pennies to buy the best wine Harry Baley had. Ralf didn't quite finish the wine that day of the storm. Blake, however, remembered the debt and wanted to collect on it... his way.
        The day looked to be a good one. Clouds had cleared before dawn and a warm wind had dried the dew in the hayfields. Herbert got up early and ate a huge breakfast of pease porridge and rye bread. He wanted to get on the road so as to meet the hermit. Old man had promised to lend Herbert his flea-bitten donkey.
        Herbert needed to haul some logs to town for Harry Baley. He had skill with wood and had bargained with Baley to build new front doors for the tavern. Recently, a brawl with out-of-towners had destroyed the doors after one had claimed he was robbed by a barmaid. This was a frequent occurrence, given the strength of Baley's brew (and the nimble fingers of the girls).
        Marion went back to bed after her son left. She hadn't slept well because of bad dreams. Maybe the wind to the south had something to do with it. The breeze from a new direction created different creaks in her home at night. A nap would fix things.
        She could feel herself drifting off when there came a knock on the door. Marion put on a flimsy shift to hide her nakedness and wondered who on earth it could be. When she opened the door she saw Lord Blake with cap in hand. His lackeys stood behind him.
        Two of them held his spirited black horse while a third lingered near the road. The man near the road seemed agitated as he peered up and down it. He jiggled nervously on one foot.
        Blake bowed, "Marion, it is a pleasure. May I come in? On business that is. It's about your late husband."
        "Ralf? What of him?"
        Blake gently pushed the door open and stepped inside. Marion moved back, worried more about possible debts than Blake himself. He closed the door on his men. "May I sit down, Marion?" He sat at the dinner table in Herbert's chair, at the head.
        She sat down and folded her shift closer to her well-shaped body. Marion wasn't pretty in the conventional sense. Yet men noticed her refined features, and she had a warm personality that made her a desirable woman. There was one flaw in her character--she was too trustful. Her late husband took advantage of this to indulge his drunken ways and now Blake had his own wishes.
        Her innocence aroused him, only he didn't want marriage.
        "Did Ralf owe you money?" She became conscious of his stare.
        Blake's voice trembled in anticipation, "Oh yes, Marion. He borrowed money, ten silver pennies the day of his--his last day. Ralf promised me Herbert would pay, if he couldn't. Signed his mark as faith."
        Marion forgot her skimpy robe as she dropped both hands to the table top. It allowed the shift to open wide enough to show white flesh. "Ten silver pennies? Are you sure?"
        He put his hands on the table and leaned forward, "Yes Marion, and I want it today." A bead of sweat ran down one of his cheeks, not from the heat. "Today!"
        "We can't pay today! Not for weeks! Couldn't you wait or take something besides money? Herbert's not here, he won't be home till I don't know when."
        "Sure, I can take something in exchange and Herbert doesn't have to know. It'll be all right, Marion." He wet his lips, hitched his chair closer and reached for her bosom.
        Marion slapped his hand away, shocked at the implications. "I think you had better go, Lord Blake."
        "You owe me money, Marion. I want it, now!" He thumped his fist on the table.
        "Lord Blake, Herbert won't like what you propose."
        "Herbert's not here. I am, with my men. Take your clothes off for me and I'll.... I'll be gentle." He smiled. His eyes had a glazed look in them.
        Marion surprised him when she pushed the table into his gut. It caused him to lose his wind and fall over backwards. She ran to the fireplace, grabbed the iron poker and whirled around to face him, fury in her eyes.
        He scrambled to his feet and backed away to the door. "Men, to me!" Two of them burst through the door, their knives drawn. The man near the road stood motionless, his face pale. Blake yelled to him, "Tom! Come in here!" Tom walked forward reluctantly. Blake turned back to face the enraged woman. "Now Marion...."
        "Get out," she said between gritted teeth. She waved the poker at them. Her wide-open shift exposed full white breasts.
        The weak menace of the woman with her clumsy iron poker, alone and apparently helpless before four men, coupled with the heedless regard of her nakedness, made Blake careless. He stepped forward with his hand raised.
         "Please, my dear--"
        Marion poked the dull point in his eye. Lord Blake howled in agony, his lust changed to pain and horror. He reeled from her and fell on the floor with both hands pressed against the bleeding socket. The other men stood frozen. Tom stepped backwards toward the door.
        Blake's offended dignity at this peasant woman's blatant act of aggression roused itself. Through a red haze he saw her crouched against the opposite wall, sickened at what she had done. He sat up and pointed at her, "Tom, get the whip and you two, grab ahold of her and if you have to, cut off her arms if she struggles. She's a dead woman."
        The Lord's two thralls advanced on Marion with grim smiles. Tom ran outside but bypassed the horse's saddlebag that contained the whip. Instead, he kept on running.

        Herbert felt proud. He walked back from Old Man's place after he had returned the donkey. Coins jangled in his pocket and he decided his mother could use some new shoes and maybe a warmer cloak. Merchant Sawyer had a selection of both, she could take her pick. Ten copper pennies were more than enough payment for the work he'd done on Baley's doors. The warm night filled him with a deep contentment after a long day of carpentry. Life seemed grand.
        His thoughts of success lost their thread when he passed Lord Blake's manor. The gates were closed and torches were lit on the walkways of the walls, carried by men whose features Herbert couldn't make out in the dim light. An uneasiness filled him. Marauders? He slipped by, a shadow among shadows, suddenly cautious of the woods on either side. A vague fear grew in his belly. Mama!
        Herbert lunged down the road, moving fast for one his size. Panic spurred him on. It was about a hundred yards to his cottage and the distance seemed endless. When he rounded the last bend in the road, he stopped short.
        His house stood silent and dark. No fire burned in the fireplace. As he resumed his walk toward home, his head turned this way and that but saw nothing. The whole night was quiet as if something waited. The door was busted in. He heard no movement from inside.
        "Mama?" He hesitated on the threshold, one foot in the doorway, the other rooted to the ground outside. A noise behind the cottage caught his attention. He pulled out his meat knife and drew back from the entrance. The sound was harsh breathing. Herbert crept around the opposite side of the house. He came upon a figure on its knees peering around the opposite corner of the cottage. Herbert grabbed the man by the hair and put the blade to his throat. The man tried to struggle but stopped when he realized who it was.
        "John Ox!"
        Herbert put pressure on the blade but held back his full strength which could easily have cut the man's head off. "Who are you?"
        "It's Tom! You know me. I work for Lord Blake. Please don't hurt me, John."
        Herbert released him. "Where's Mama?"
        Tom rubbed his throat, "I've got bad news, John. I had nothing to do with--" He was off his feet, choking, gasping, kicking his legs in Herbert's iron grip. His eyes silently pleaded for mercy. Herbert dropped him.
        "Where's Mama?"
        Tom lay on the ground and gagged for breath, his throat swollen from Herbert's fingers. "Blake killed her. I ran. He wanted his way with her and she stabbed out his eye. He got mad. I'm sorry, John."
        Herbert stood silent. A vein in his temple pulsed heavily. His eyes got glassy, his large hands clenched and unclenched. Mama dead?
        "I waited for you, John. Everyone liked her. That Blake...." he wilted under the son's stare. "I buried her there," he pointed to a fresh mound of earth in the garden. "She told me once how she liked her garden. She's at rest now." He added softly, "I think Blake's waiting for you."
        The big man raised his head haltingly and looked in the direction of Blake's mansion. The calmness of a deliberate decision came over him. He had a job to do. A mess to clean up. Right now.
        He began to walk toward the glow on the horizon, everything behind him forgotten. There was a "John?" uttered but it didn't register. His whole being was focused on the wrong done him and his.
        A thinly wooded knoll separated the two dwellings. The road ran around it past Lord Blake's place. Herbert had sat on this knoll as a child to hide from his drunken father. He'd watched the activity down on the powerful man's estate.
        He had noted when the gates closed at dusk, some servants hurried away for their homes while others returned to the mansion for the night. The gates, huge ones that swung on iron pivots, were barred on the inside with rough-hewn timbers slid through metal brackets. They opened at dawn, never before. Only... he had seen people leave after dark on errands that couldn't wait. There was a way that bypassed the gate.
        That's where he went now--down to a place behind the back wall and beyond a cleared field. Just into a strip of woods he came to a large granite boulder. Probably deposited from a past ice age, it lay wedged between two mature oaks. These particular trees served as landmarks to travelers taking short-cuts across Blake's land and were treated with respect.
        Hidden by evergreen bushes beneath the left side of the granite boulder was a secret passageway. It ran under the cleared field to the cellar of the estate. Only Blake and his most trusted retainers knew the existence of this tunnel--and Herbert. He had kept it to himself all these years.
        He came to the entrance and for the first time would enter and see if it was guarded against intruders.
        He stooped and squeezed his vast bulk into the opening meant for a smaller man. Lined entirely with stone slabs, the passage became larger and wider further on so he could walk upright. The tunnel smelled of fresh body odor. He moved forward, grim-faced. His hands lightly touched either wall like a methodical spider in the dark.
        A thumping noise caused him to halt and listen. Thump! He continued forward until a heavy wooden door brought him up short. He could feel the vibrations of blows through the wood. As he stood there with a hand on the door, a sharp iron peg was driven through and just missed his hand.
        Meat knife in hand he put his shoulder to the door and pushed. It gave a little and the pounding ceased. He stepped back a few paces then hurled his entire weight at the barrier. He broke it loose from its hinges and pieces of the door flew into the room with him right behind.
        A single candle balanced on a stool lit the space. A half-dozen men huddled by the far wall of the cellar, shocked at the size and violence of Herbert. They gave a loud cry and fled at the sight of him. He could hear frantic footsteps overhead and shouts of warning.
        His bloodlust rose as he ran up the steps to the ground floor. The cellar door was ajar. Herbert slammed it back against the wall which made a tremendous boom and aroused more excited yells at the front of the house. He followed the sounds to the main hall.
        There he saw Blake with a white cloth bound over his injured eye. The lord sat in a throne-like wooden chair on a raised dais before an oaken table. The walls were covered with expensive tapestries, bulrushes matted the floor, torches in wall sockets gave off a fitful glow and a fire roared in the fireplace. Blake's wolfhounds looked at Herbert, their heads raised in surprise over an interrupted meal of discarded bones. Lackeys stood motionless, faces fearful, clubs at the ready and stared at the huge figure in the doorway.
        Blake said in a small voice, "John Ox." He turned to his men in alarm and ordered, "Get him!"
        The lackeys attacked Herbert as he rushed forward but he scattered them like geese before the fox. Clubs bounced off his arms and one man gave a muffled scream when Herbert smashed a fist in his face. They fell away from him, unnerved by his ferocity. His bull-like bellow shook the rafters.
        It froze Blake who watched in horror as Herbert jumped up on the platform and reached across the table. Blake pushed his chair back, but too late.
        Herbert seized him by the shoulders and dragged him to the fireplace. Blake's bowels loosened as he felt himself lifted and his lower torso wedged up the flue so his head and arms hung over the blazing logs. He howled resentfully in bitter pain as the heat scorched his limbs. The others cried out yet stayed back.
        Herbert paid no heed to the minor burns on his own arms as he laughed in hysteria, yelling, "You hurt my Mama!"
        Blake shrieked and beat at the flames. Sparks flew every time his arms hit the logs. His face blackened from the soot and began to burn from the creosol of the chimney dripping on him. His wails increased to a higher pitch. The wall-hangings in the hall caught fire from the sparks caused by Blake's thrashings. Smoke billowed everywhere.
        All except Herbert disappeared
        Herbert watched the body shrivel in the heat from the flames. A sense of finality came over him. He plodded down the cellar stairs and out the secret passage.
        The fresh air of the forest cleared his head. His past was over, buried in a vegetable garden. He was an outlaw now... if he wished to continue this life.
        The fire of Lord Blake's mansion lit up the sky for leagues until its light fell below the horizon behind Herbert. He made his way to the sanctity of Sherwood Forest like other desperate men before him.

*****

        Lloyd stirred the ashes of the campfire and put on more twigs. "Still hungry?"
        Herbert shook his head. He had a dreamy expression on his face, as if the tears he'd shed had buried his past.
        Lloyd also accepted the past, even now he schemed up plans for the future. Events of the previous days had changed Lloyd's life and the big man at his campfire was one of the principle reasons. He could use Herbert and he would. A strong man (and a loyal one) had value. He would give his new friend a direction... and a life.
        They both raised their heads at a new sound and looked into each others eyes. Lloyd shook his head, dropped his gaze to the slice of bread in his hand and began to eat. Herbert drank from the skin bottle noisily, one hand on his meat knife.
        The sound of footsteps in the underbrush stumbled and thrashed and approached the campfire. Then they stopped.

Author EDWARD M. TURNER

        Edward M. Turner grew up in rural Maine in the 1960's, then joined the US Coast Guard after high school. He served four years attaining the rank of Third Class Boatswain's Mate. Upon discharge and a few detours doing skilled labor, he attended a community college on the GI Bill and began writing. Since 1995 he's published essays, literary and genre fiction and now his first novel.
        Today Ed lives in Biddeford, ME with his wife, Amy and her black cat, Fannie. He's currently writing another novel, writes a newspaper column, and a recent interview with him can be accessed at: www.bangornews.com