Chapter Eleven
The Queen looked as lovely as ever, dressed in a burgundy gown with pearls at her throat, and her auburn hair caught up in a golden net. But looking closer, I could see that her fine features were a little worn with care, and for the first time I could begin to see her true age in the lines on her still beautiful face. Her reception of me was far warmer than at our last meeting, and she rose from her high-backed chair to greet me, ordering a servant to bring wine and asking after my health in a most considerate manner.
I handed over the letters which were addressed to her – I had dispatched Hanno to deliver the rest – and stood patiently while she read them, sipping from a silver-chased wooden cup of wine and admiring the gold-embroidered tapestries on the walls of the chamber. The Queen was not alone, of course. Walter de Coutances, the Archbishop of Rouen and the Queen’s most loyal counsellor, was in attendance, too. He seemed barely able to restrain his impatience while she read through the letters, almost snatching them from her fingers the moment she had finished reading them and devouring the contents the way a starving man wolfs down a plate of food.
‘You have done very well, Alan,’ said the Queen with a smile. ‘And I am most grateful to you. We all are. Your service shall not be forgotten when this business is over.’
I was muttering something about not seeking any reward, that the honour of serving my King was ample reward in itself, when the archbishop rudely interrupted me.
‘It seems that Boxley and Robertsbridge have the situation in hand. They say they will stick like glue to the King until we can arrange the ransom,’ he said to the Queen, ignoring me completely. ‘But it is going to be expensive, very expensive …’
‘The Church in England must be made to play its part in raising the money,’ said the Queen, fixing the archbishop with a meaningful look. ‘I am thinking we must appropriate the gold and silver plate from every parish church in the land. And Boxley suggests that we take some of the Cistercians’ wool crop, too – that will be worth a pretty penny.’
‘Yes, that might be possible,’ said Coutances. ‘And the nobility must pay its share, too, but I fear that will not be enough.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Some of the burden will have to fall on the common people. I’d urge a general tax of one quarter the value of all moveable property. We will need to collect the silver – there will be a vast quantity of it – at a central point. Here in the crypt in the Abbey, perhaps, or in London at St Paul’s …’
Suddenly reminded of my presence, the Archbishop frowned at me. ‘Perhaps, my lady, we might discuss this in private …’ And he inclined his head in my direction.
‘Alan, will you excuse us, please?’ she said to me with a lovely smile.
Making my bow, I withdrew, leaving the old man and the Queen to their deliberations.
I had no desire to linger in Westminster. I had a horror of running into Marie-Anne, who I had heard had not followed Robin into the woodland exile of an outlaw, but had remained under the protection of Queen Eleanor in the safety and comfort of her court. After my betrayal of her beloved husband at the inquisition in Temple Church, I knew I could not face the accusatory look in her eyes should we meet.
I was happy, though, to be reunited with my grey gelding Ghost, who had put on an alarming amount of weight in the palace stables while I had been in Germany, and who had completely recovered from his bruised hoof. He was happy to see me, neighing and nodding with pleasure, when I brought him a special feed of warm mash that evening, and I took my time over brushing his coat, vowing that I would take him out for a long gallop the next day.
While I was fussing over my animal friend – I believe I was braiding his tail like a besotted stable hand – I heard a familiar voice calling me by name and wishing me God’s peace, and turned to find myself facing a slim, fit-looking man of medium height, with cropped, iron-grey hair and muddy green eyes.
It was Sir Nicholas de Scras, an old friend and well-liked comrade from the Holy Land, who had tended me when I was sick with fever in Acre. But while his face was wonderfully familiar, there was one thing about Sir Nicholas that was different: his surcoat. When I had known him in Outremer, Sir Nicholas had been a Hospitaller, a member of a religious knightly order similar to the Templars, but concerned with healing the sick as well as fighting the infidel. Their surcoat was an austere black with a small white cross on the breast. The man who stood before me in the stable was sporting a dark-blue garment with three golden scallop shells on the front around a representation of a dolphin.
‘Sir Nicholas,’ I almost shouted, clasping his hand warmly. ‘I am so pleased to see you! But what brings you to England? Have the Hospitallers abandoned the Holy Land to the heathen Saracens?’
‘They have not, and God willing they never shall,’ my old friend said, smiling back at me. ‘No, it is I who have abandoned the Hospitallers.’
‘How so?’ I asked, amazed.
‘It is a sad tale,’ he said, his eyes crinkling with sudden unhappiness, ‘and one that would be better told over a cup of wine. Will you join me? I know of a tavern that will suit our needs admirably. It is not far.’
And so I found myself once again at the table in the Blue Boar tavern where I had caroused with Bernard six weeks previously, sharing a flagon of the same green Rhenish wine with my old friend Sir Nicholas.
After some gossip about the Queen’s court at Westminster, I urged Sir Nicholas to tell me how he had come to leave the Hospitallers. And so he began: ‘I would not have left, had it not been for the death of my elder brother Anthony. He died in the autumn – fell from his horse; he cracked his pate, breathed his last three days later. It was a silly, pointless death, and not worthy of a fine man. But he is with God now, and so beyond the cares of this world.
‘His poor wife, Mary, is left with two small sons. The eldest, William, will inherit our lands in Sussex, but he is a child, barely able to walk let alone administer an estate or defend his property during the coming years of blood and violence. And so, when news reached me of Anthony’s death, I was left with a stark choice: return home to England to protect my brother’s family or remain faithful to my Order.’
Sir Nicholas took a gulp of wine. It was clear that he was still not entirely reconciled with the choice he’d made.
‘For seven days and nights, I prayed. I spent a week on my knees in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. Under the truce with Saladin last year, after King Richard departed Outremer, we Christians were permitted to visit the holy sites unmolested. So for a long week I asked God for guidance. Should I go home to defend my family’s lands or remain with the Hospitallers? And through Heavenly Grace I was granted a sign.
‘The silence of that holy place was suddenly broken by two boys, a Christian and a Muslim, who ran into the church shrieking and laughing at some game of their devising. In that moment, I knew that God was sending me a message. Those two happy children were not much older than my nephews, and, though they were of different faiths, born of enemies, during the truce when they were allowed to mingle, the boys had managed to find a fresh, innocent joy in each other’s company. I knew then that God meant for me to make my own peace with the Saracens, leave the Holy Land and return to protect my brother’s boys.’
He wiped away the suspicion of a tear, and I admit I felt like shedding a few myself, moved as I was by his tale.
‘I went to see the Grand Master the next day to tell him of my decision, and of his mercy and doubtless because the truce meant that he had a lesser need for experienced fighting men, he agreed to release me from my vows. So, here I am, back in England for good. Tomorrow I must travel onwards to Sussex to take up my sword on behalf of my family. But I must tell you, Alan, it was not easy to turn my back on the Order. Even though I believe that God directed my actions, I cannot help but feel that, in some way, I have behaved shamefully.’
He fell silent, and for a few moments I said nothing. I could only wonder at the strength it must have taken for him to break his sacred vows, to give up his calling for the sake of two small boys who were not even his own. Once again Robin leapt into my mind; I recalled his sacrifice on behalf of another small boy who was not his son. There was something of Robin in Sir Nicholas, I mused: a ruthless fighting man, doubtless a fearsome killer of men, but with a streak of compassion, too, and a fierce sense of family duty.
‘You said that bloody violence was coming to England,’ I said, mainly to break the silence. ‘What did you mean by that?’
Sir Nicholas had composed himself by now. ‘Oh, this business between Richard and John. They are both sons of King Henry and both want the throne. And while Richard has it now, he is imprisoned in the wilds of Germany. Who knows when he will return? Meanwhile, John is gathering his power, calling barons and knights to his banner, recruiting fighting men … Even if Richard were to return soon, he would have an almighty battle on his hands. John has taken Tickhill Castle and Mount St Michael and Marlborough and Nottingham castles. It will not be an easy matter to dislodge him from these fortresses when – or even if – Richard returns. And for all we know, the King could already be dead.’
I longed to blurt out all I knew, to set his mind at ease on that score, but my mission to Ochsenfurt was supposed to remain secret for the moment and I could not allow myself to betray the Queen’s confidence. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a big man in the corner of the room. It was the boorish fellow Tom with whom I had fought the last time I had been drinking in this place. I stared over at him, a challenge in my eyes. But when he saw me looking at him, he hurriedly finished his tankard of ale and shambled out of the tavern without a backward glance. I put him out of my mind and concentrated on what Sir Nicholas de Scras was saying.
‘… I miss Outremer,’ he said, a low hum of emotion in his voice. ‘I miss the certainty of the cause; of knowing that we were engaged in God’s work, serving Him in everything we did. I had a place in the world, a purpose. Now, I don’t know. Nothing is clear any more. I had friends there, good friends, but I know almost nobody at court now. And in Sussex … well, I left my brother’s hearth a long time ago. It’s a good twenty years since I was there. England is a foreign land to me now.’
I looked at Nicholas. The wine seemed to have made him a little maudlin.
‘Do you remember Sir Richard at Lea?’ he asked, his muddy green eyes clouding with sorrow.
I nodded, and took a frugal sip of my drink.
‘I miss him. He might have been misguided enough to join the Templars, but he was a true Christian, a true friend. It was not a death worthy of a noble Christian knight, to be cut down like that, guarding some merchant’s caravan. I’d like to get my hands on the men who killed him, would that I knew who they were. Bandits, just … f*cking scum.’
I was surprised by his use of such earthy profanity. I could not imagine the Sir Nicholas I had known in Outremer, the holy warrior, the man dedicated to God, using such a term. And I did remember Sir Richard at Lea. He had been a good friend to me, too.
I also remembered Sir Richard’s death, for I had been there, only yards away, when he died. I remembered the casually efficient way that Little John had cut the Templar knight’s throat at Robin’s command after Sir Richard had been captured. It was a source of pain to remember it. Shame, too. I had railed madly at Robin for ordering the death of such a good man. In fact, I had fallen out with my master badly over it and had even considered leaving his service as a result. The ‘f*cking scum’ Nicholas was talking about were Robin’s men; we had robbed the caravan purely so that Robin could make an unsubtle point to the wealthy frankincense merchants of Gaza, to convince them that they should deal exclusively with him.
Apparently, Sir Nicholas had no idea as to the identity of Richard at Lea’s killers, and I was thankful for that. I prayed that he would never discover the truth.
‘So, what will you do now?’ I asked Sir Nicholas. He fixed me with his clouded green eyes, and said: ‘Tomorrow I travel to Sussex, to Mary and the children. But I shall not remain there long.’ He paused and looked down at the scarred tabletop. ‘I have taken service with Prince John,’ he mumbled.
‘What?’ I said, incredulous. ‘What did you just say?’
He looked up and his gaze firmed. ‘I have sworn allegiance to Prince John, the man who will undoubtedly be the next King of England!’ He said it defiantly. ‘I am no longer a Hospitaller, a warrior for Christ; I have a duty to defend my family, and Prince John is the coming man. Richard may be king now, but he is king only in name. John will be on the throne before long. I have taken a side, the right side, the side that I believe will be victorious in the end. And by doing so, by supporting John, I believe I have guaranteed the safety of my brother’s family.’
I hid my astonishment by taking a sip of the green German wine. This was treasonous talk. Sir Nicholas had always appear ed to me to be a man of simple faith, a man who healed the sick and fought valiantly, selflessly, against the enemies of Christendom. I had never seen this pragmatic, political side of him. This English Sir Nicholas, in his blue-and-gold surcoat, talking of ‘f*cking scum’ and admitting to high treason was a different creature entirely.
‘It is on this subject that I wanted to talk to you tonight,’ Sir Nicholas continued. ‘Prince John will be generous to any fighting man who wishes to join his cause. And I was minded of this the moment I spotted you in the stables. You are an honest man, Alan. And you are an accomplished fighter: I saw you charge the Saracen right wing at the battle of Arsuf, and I was impressed. That was a bloody day! A good day! You should join with John now – it will make your fortune in the years to come.’
‘But John is such a …’ I began.
‘Prince John is the man who will be king,’ interrupted Sir Nicholas, staring hard into my eyes as if willing me to understand his actions, perhaps even to forgive them, and to make everything in his life right by following in his footsteps. ‘Think about it,’ he said. ‘Just consider your position for a moment. I have heard it said that you betrayed your master at the inquisition in Temple Church. That it was your testimony that clinched his guilt. Is this true?’
I blushed with shame. ‘It is true,’ I muttered. This time it was I who could not meet his eyes.
‘I do not blame you,’ he said. ‘I heard that you swore a mighty oath in the church before God and the Virgin to tell the truth and the whole truth. How could you do otherwise? No, I do not blame you – you have behaved as a good Christian must. And so, as I say, I do not blame you – but the outlawed Earl of Locksley surely will.
‘And, from what I know of the Earl’s reputation,’ he went on, ‘I am certain that he will try to take his vengeance upon you. He is not a man to allow one of his servants to betray him without striking back. He will seek to make a bloody example of you. Am I not right?’
‘You have described him perfectly,’ I said.
‘And so, what will you do now? Go back to Westbury and oversee your tenants and collect your rents and wait for his vengeance to fall upon you? Or will you find new and more powerful friends? As I see it, you have no choice. You must go to Prince John at Nottingham and swear allegiance to him as soon as possible.’
I said nothing. His logic was flawless. Sir Nicholas waved to the tavern-keeper to bring another flagon of green wine. I realized then that the last one was empty, and he had drunk most of it.
‘Come, Alan – Prince John is no monster. He is not such an evil man, merely a trifle high-handed, and for that you must blame his ancestry and his exalted birth. He is the son of a king, and will be a king himself. Believe me, he knows how to reward loyal service. You have never wronged him personally, have you?’
I shook my head. I had not. I had been humiliated by him once, but I had never struck back, solely because I had never had the opportunity. I doubted that he would even remember my name.
‘Go to him, kneel before him,’ urged Sir Nicholas. ‘Humble yourself before the next King of England and you will be safe from the Earl’s wrath. More than that, you will prosper and gain wealth and honour in this life.’
I could say nothing against his arguments.
‘I will send word ahead that you are coming with my blessing. Now, tell me you will accept service with Prince John and I will smooth the path for you. You will receive a royal welcome. Come, man – say you will serve him. Tell me that you will!’
I looked up into his muddy eyes, now blazing with a verdant fervour that I had never seen in him before.
‘I will,’ I said.
As we left the tavern, I realized that I had taken too much wine, but I had not had nearly as much as Sir Nicholas. It was long past curfew and the streets were silent and deserted. After my reluctant acquiescence to his suggestion that I join Prince John, Nicholas had insisted that we drink a good deal more, and the talk had passed on to more congenial subjects. It was well past midnight when we staggered from the tavern and into the street outside, and while the sleepy tavern-keeper locked and barred the door behind us, complaining about customers who kept him from his warm bed, Nicholas muttered something about relieving himself and wandered around the corner, where he began to piss like a war horse.
I stared up at the starry sky and the bright full moon that hung like a fresh cheese above the rooftops. I hummed a little music to myself while I waited for Sir Nicholas to finish his business; my head was light but I was enjoying the feel of the cool air on my face. A beautiful night …
And I became aware that I was not alone. I could see perhaps a dozen figures, moving purposefully out of the gloom from the far side of the street, twenty yards away, grey shapes against the blackness, and the cold wink of steel blades in the moonlight.
As fortune would have it, though I had no more protection for my body than a tunic and short cloak, I was wearing my sword. In one smooth movement I drew my weapon and prepared to sell my life as dearly as possible. At these odds, I just had time to think, I am a dead man.
A snake of ice slithered in my belly and I realized that I was afraid. The dark mob were now advancing swiftly. They came at me without a sound, spreading out into a semi-circle to envelop me, surround me and cut me down, but I was already moving to the left, keeping my back to the wall of the tavern and forcing the oncoming men to crowd each other and change the shape of their attack. I counted eleven of them and then gave up, but I could see that they were far too many to fight one man with any efficiency – but who needed efficiency? Even if I managed to down three or four of them, they had no lack of men to take their places.
In the middle of the crowd, clearly visible in the light from the full moon, I could make out the looming form of Tom, the man I had fought on my last visit to this God-cursed drinking den. He had evidently neither forgotten nor forgiven our bout. No words were spoken, and none needed to be said. It was clear Tom wanted revenge for the thrashing I’d handed him – and this time he’d brought a sword and all his friends to the party.
I took a pace forward and took up the high guard position, my long blade held in my right hand vertically, the hilt in front of my face, the point lancing towards the star-speckled sky; I had the misericorde held low and to the side in my left hand. Then I waited for their attack.
It was Tom who began this deadly dance, with a mighty over-hand hack at my head; this served as the signal for all his confederates to pile in. I blocked Tom’s cut with a semi-circular sweep of my sword, knocking his blade down and away, and I would have followed on with a hard thrust from the misericorde, but a man to my left swung an axe at my legs and I had to jump to save my ankles – and from then on it was sheer bloody mayhem. Blades were slicing, cutting, spearing at me from three sides, and I was moving as fast as I could, blocking, dodging, parrying, striking out wildly just to stay alive. I took a knife cut to my unprotected ribs, on the cracked left side, but managed to drop one man with a dagger-punch to the belly, and, as he wheeled away screaming, I took the hand of another man, hacking it clean off at the wrist with my sword. But I was deeply in trouble – and I knew it.
A blade probed out of nowhere and burned along my jaw before I could block it, and I wondered how much longer I could keep the mob at bay. My face was bloody and my side torn, and I could see the rest of my life as being measured in less time than it takes a leaf to fall. At that moment, as I ducked a swinging sword, I caught a glimpse of a snarling face above a dark surcoat and a whirling silver blade: Sir Nicholas was charging into the fray from my right.
My friend made no sound but for the wet smack of his sword chopping a way into the throng of men around me. His first strike lopped a man’s head off, and then he was carving his way towards me leaving screaming mutilated men in his wake. Slice, lunge, sweep, parry, lunge. It was an awesome sight, and a part of me just wanted to stand and admire the former Hospitaller’s formidable battle skills as he hacked with pitiless efficiency through the mob. He dispatched one assailant with a dancer’s grace, thrusting his sword through the man’s belly, immediately pulling out the blade and cutting the legs from beneath another. Somehow I came out of my reverie in time to block a savage sword swipe from big Tom. But this time I managed to slam the point of the misericorde into his upper thigh, following up with a lateral sword chop to his waist that dropped him to the ground – and then they were all running. Well, those who were able to run. Half a dozen bodies littered the mud- and blood-churned street, including the groaning form of Tom, who was trying to rise on his injured leg.
Sir Nicholas rested the point of his sword on the ground and leaned on it for a moment. His breathing was deep and unhurried. I stepped to where Tom knelt and kicked him over on to his back. Booting his weapon out of reach, I put my knee and my full weight on his chest, and the point of the misericorde under his chin. ‘Who sent you?’ I demanded, hot blood running down my jaw and dripping on to his dirty upturned face. ‘Who ordered you to kill me?’
‘God damn you!’ he said, glaring at me with huge, pain-filled eyes, and spat at me. As I leaned back to wipe the gob of spittle from my cheek, a sword tip out of nowhere speared down past my chest, and sliced into his neck, cutting the artery there and spraying me with gore. Tom clutched at his red, wet neck with both hands, and in the few moments it took me to pull back out of reach of the spatter and sheathe my misericorde, he fell still – silenced for ever.
I turned and looked up the length of the blade at Sir Nicholas, a question in my eyes.
‘That was for his insolence,’ said my knightly friend. ‘He spat upon you, he defiled you – and I could never allow a churl such as this to show disrespect to a man who fought so well for Christendom.’
I said nothing for a moment, for my emotions were mixed. I was disappointed that we would not now be able to get any information from Tom, and yet I owed my life to this slight, deadly man standing above me. Had he not come to my rescue, I would be as dead as the big man now lying before me in a lake of his own precious life fluid. So I rose painfully to my feet, mopped the running blood from my face with my sleeve, and thanked Sir Nicholas from the bottom of my heart for coming to my aid.
‘It was nothing, my friend,’ he said. ‘If I had not drunk so much wine, I would have been faster. Are you hurt?’
My wounds, thankfully, were not serious. The cut in my left side, slicing straight through the big purple-yellow bruise from where the ogre had kicked me, was shallow and only three inches long. Hanno would stitch it for me in the morning. Sir Nicholas, having studied my jawbone, told me I needn’t worry about the copious bleeding. Then he slapped me on the back and said that I would have a fine scar to remember the fight by. In truth, I have always been watched over by God and the saints in battle – either that or you could say that I had the Devil’s own luck.
And so Sir Nicholas and I, leaving seven dead bodies lying in the street for the local watchmen to find and bury, or the wandering street pigs to eat – I cared not – walked back to Westminster Hall to seek out our pallets.
At noon the next day Hanno and I set off towards Nottingham and Prince John. We had travelled only as far as Charing when we saw a horse-borne party trotting towards us. As they drew closer, I saw with a sinking feeling that it was Marie-Anne, accompanied by another woman, a priest, and a dozen men-at-arms in Queen Eleanor’s red-and-gold livery. The street was narrow at this point, so Hanno and I directed our horses over to the side to allow the party to pass. I said no words of greeting; indeed, I looked down at Ghost’s grey neck hoping that I would not catch the eye of Robin’s countess and only peeped at them out of the side of my eye.
I need not have worried. Marie-Anne, looking almost regal in her haughtiness, walked her horse past mine, head high, eyes looking straight ahead, without even giving me the merest glance. The woman riding beside her was Godifa, and I could not help but notice that she was looking spectacularly beautiful. Her hair beneath a simple pure white headdress shone like gold, her neck was long and slender and she held her chin high, which brought out the line of her jaw and elegant cheekbones. She did not vouchsafe me the slightest look either. But the priest – it was Tuck, of course – hauled back on the reins as he came close, halting his mount and hailing me cheerfully. The men-at-arms riding behind him were forced to steer their mounts around the stationary priest in order to keep up with their female charges.
‘Alan,’ Tuck yelled, although we were only a few yards apart. ‘Well met. You are back from the German lands, I see. And I hear your mission was successful. Well done! You have served the King well. But what has happened to your face?’
I lifted a hand to the freshly sewn cut on my jaw and was about to answer my old friend when I was interrupted by the Countess of Locksley. She did not speak to me, but rather called back over the rump of her horse to her confessor.
‘Father Tuck,’ she said, in a high imperious voice, ‘do not dawdle and pass the time of day with street scum and traitors. You will attend to me. Come up here, ride next to me this instant.’
Tuck shrugged, half-smiled an apology, his round face screwed up with unhappiness, but he did as he was ordered and spurred his horse to catch up with his mistress.
Hanno and I turned in our saddles to watch the party ride south towards Westminster. I was about to make some light remark to him when the right-hand lead horse peeled away from the cavalcade and a small figure began to gallop back towards us, her skirts flying in the wind. When she drew level with us, Goody hauled on her reins and brought her mount to a standstill, its legs pawing the air in front of Hanno and me. I noted that she had become an accomplished horsewoman since I had last seen her. When had I last spent any time with her? I thought to myself. Did I even really know her? Two red patches of rage coloured the soft, creamy skin of her cheeks as she brought her animal under control. And I could imagine, quite easily, that sparks were actually flying from her shining violet-blue eyes.
‘I cannot believe that you have the nerve to show your face in this country,’ she began, her voice low and crackling with anger, ‘after what you have done to Robin, after all he has done for you …’ She swallowed a breath. ‘You deceiving, back-stabbing, hateful man!’
‘Goody,’ I pleaded, ‘if you will let me explain—’
‘You can keep your explanations. I don’t want to hear your lies – I don’t ever want to see you again. And to think that once I felt …’
She was magnificent – utterly beautiful, ravishing. Flushed, sparkling, her anger was a rare and rich jewel. If I had not been the object of her wrath, I believe I might have savoured that moment for many a year. As it was, I could only feel my cheeks flushing bright red to match hers; and a trickle of fresh blood seeping from the cut on my face.
‘Goody,’ I tried once again. ‘You don’t understand; you cannot understand … when they asked me those questions in the church …’
‘Don’t you dare to speak to me! Don’t you ever speak to me again. I hate you, I hate you!’
And, to my astonishment, she burst into tears, wheeled her horse and, spurring savagely, galloped back to join the Countess’s cavalcade, which was by now more than a hundred yards away.
Hanno had found something fascinating on the nail of his index finger and he was giving it his full attention. For myself, I was in no mood to discuss being snubbed and scolded by a pair of highly strung women, so we mutely turned our horses’ heads north towards the great Roman road and put as much distance as we could between us and the scene of my humiliation.