Shadow of the Wolf by Tim Hall

staggering aboard his carriage.
    And then the briefest glimpse of a smaller, dark-haired figure … kicking and twisting … being dragged into the vehicle by two heavy-set men …
    ‘Marian!’
    Robin ran for the carriage. Something hit him hard from behind and he went to the ground. Boots thumping by on both sides. He struggled to his feet, fought his way past two men carrying a strongbox between them. He ran, gasping for breath, across the Great Ward, past the manor house.
    ‘Marian!’
    Running and fighting and scrapping, blind now in the smoke. Groping and kicking and coughing, and finding himself at the main gates. Stumbling out.
    There, at the foot of the walls, he slumped to his knees. Because below him, rattling down Lord’s Hill, still gaining speed, was Lord Delbosque’s coach, fading in and out of view through the columns of rain.
    Around Robin the last of the servants were emerging, coughing, shouting names, gripping their few belongings. Flames were soaring above the curtain walls, reddening the storm. A yawning splintering sound, followed by a resounding crash, sparks rushing into the sky.
    Robin was oblivious to it all. He stayed there on his knees,rainwater running down his neck, the inferno raging at his back, watching the carriage dwindle, thinking of Marian inside, and knowing for the second time in his life that he was truly and utterly alone.

V. Shelter from the Storm
    R obin stood, at dawn, amid the remains of the Delbosque manor. Here and there ash still blew, eddying around his feet.
    He pulled his cloak close as he picked his way between crumbled stone and blackened timber. His eyes followed the faint tracks of a fox. He knelt to examine the hardened footprints of crows. The scavengers had come no doubt to look for corpses amid the ashes. Was that why Robin had resisted coming here himself, in the weeks since the fire, in case he found signs that Marian had not been stolen away, after all, but had died that day in the flames? He dared to look closely now and he found only a dog’s skull and tiny bird bones, nothing girl-sized.
    He went to where their tower had stood. It was toppled, its timbers poking through masonry like splintered bones. With his foot he turned over an object left strangely intact. It was one of Marian’s mother’s books, its cover charred but its pages still gleaming with pictures of monsters and gods.
    He closed his fingers around the amulet at his chest. He squeezed tighter, felt the jade cutting into his palm, and he kept squeezing. Why had he been left behind, twice over? Why had Marian’s father done this, and where had he taken her?
    He looked up the valley. He knew where he could go to vent his anger. He went to the edge of the manor, where he had left the willow bough, hung with the hare he had shot in the warrens. He hoisted the yoke and settled it across his shoulders, then followed Packman’s Furrow, climbing towards the village.
     
    ‘You’re not welcome here, turn around.’
    ‘Crawl back to your den.’
    They had appeared from behind the threshing barn and now stood above Robin on Marsh Ridge. It was Alwin Topcroft and Lagot Reeve who had spoken, but as usual it was Narris Felstone who stood as their leader. All three carried short heavy sticks.
    Only three of you
, Robin thought.
Three is barely even a fair fight.
    They looked thin and sallow, these older boys. In recent years scorching summers had been followed by autumn floods: time and again the villagers’ crops had failed. Robin, in contrast, had grown tall and broad, his big hunting cloak no longer slumping from his shoulders.
    ‘And you can leave that,’ Narris said, pointing his stick at the hare. ‘We set snares. Our bait had gone but there was nothing there. Now here you are with our catch.’
    Robin continued across Mill Bridge to the bank of the pond. He laid the hare on the ground. ‘Here it is,’ he said. ‘Come and take it.’
    Narris ran his tongue across his lips. He was gripping