Chapter Twelve
Two days later, on a golden spring afternoon, with the sunlight glancing through the narrow windows, illuminating the swirls of smoke in the air and making mad and merry patterns on the rush-strewn floor, I stood before Prince John himself in the great hall that occupied the middle bailey of Nottingham Castle. The Prince was in a fine humour, feasting at one end of a long table laden with roast chickens and other dishes, laughing and jesting with a short companion seated to his right. Although the huge space of the great hall contained several dozen folk – knights, men-at-arms, priests, servants of all kinds – they were the only diners. I had been admitted to the hall by the Prince’s chamberlain, and loudly announced, but I was left to stand there, with Hanno at my side, waiting at the end of the long wooden board to be noticed by the most powerful man in the country; the man who Sir Nicholas avowed would surely be the next King of England. Yet it was not Prince John who drew my eye as I waited patiently; it was his small, dark companion who commanded my attention. He seemed to be enjoying the Prince’s particular favour that afternoon, talking intimately with his royal master, making half-heard jests and sharing the big silver platter of succulent roast fowl. It was the erstwhile Sheriff of Nottinghamshire himself: Sir Ralph Murdac.
I was glad to note that his crippled left shoulder was still wedged high, but otherwise Murdac seemed in good health, a little heavier than when I had last seen him and clearly prospering in the Prince’s service. His familiar expensive black silk tunic was topped by a rich fur-lined mantle, though the weather was warm enough for this to be mere ostentation. His stubby fingers, smeared with chicken grease, now sported half a dozen chunky golden rings topped with fat, square-cut glinting jewels.
Riding through the town of Nottingham on our way to the castle had brought back evil memories of my younger days there as a starving cutpurse, and that bad feeling remained with me now that I was in the very heart of England’s strongest fortress. I felt unnerved, unmanned: this castle had fearful memories for me. When I was a boy it had loomed over the town of Nottingham, a source of raw Norman power. From its gates mail-clad men on horseback had emerged to terrorize the population, collecting taxes, violating young maidens and summarily hanging anyone who opposed their will. In this very hall just three years ago, these two men had humiliated me, forcing me to sing for them when I was cold and wet and tired, and then tossing me pennies as if I was some starveling mountebank.
Feeling the stirrings of rage in my belly, I suppressed them almost immediately. For the weeks and months ahead I needed to be what Tuck would have called a ‘cold-hot’ man; that is, a man who keeps his rage hidden deep inside and only shows an icy indifference to the world. Robin was such a man, I remember Tuck telling me shortly after I joined the band of Sherwood outlaws in what seemed like another age. But like the shivering thief I had once been, I was hungry now, and even as I eyed Murdac’s golden rings with a larcenous envy that I had not felt in years, my stomach growled, a long, low sound like a war hound giving warning that it was about to attack. The noise was loud enough to startle Ralph Murdac and his royal master from their crisp, golden chickens. And they simultaneously looked up at me.
‘I beg your pardon, sire,’ I said, spreading a servile grin across my lips.
The Prince must have known that Hanno and I were standing there, for we had been but ten paces from him for some while, but it had amused His Royal Highness to ignore us. My wayward stomach, it seemed, had forced him to acknowledge our presence.
‘Ah, there you are,’ said the Prince, suddenly all smiles and affability. ‘It is young Alan of Westbury, if I am not mistaken; the famous trouvère and noted swordsman. And my servants tell me that you are the man we have to thank for locating my noble brother King Richard in his stinking German prison – you know, I had feared that he might be dead …’
As he said this, something flashed across his face, just for an instant, a look of – was it fear? Anger? Then it was gone and he was all bland smiles again.
‘Well, don’t stand on ceremony, my boy, come and join us. Could you manage a little chicken?’ The Prince clapped his hands and a servant appeared suddenly, as if by some mountebank’s conjuring trick. ‘A cup of wine and a stool for my young friend, and be quick about it,’ he ordered in his harsh cracked voice.
So I sat down at the board with Prince John and Sir Ralph Murdac. It was a situation that I could never have conceived of five years ago. I could scarcely believe it now. I saw that Hanno was being led away by one of the servants – presumably he was to be fed in the kitchens or somewhere more suited to his lower rank. I helped myself to a small piece of chicken breast, and a hunk of fine-milled white bread.
‘You know Sir Ralph Murdac, of course,’ said Prince John, nodding at my mortal enemy, the man I most wanted to kill in the world, who sat on the other side of the table from me chewing a drumstick and regarding me down his nose with those icy blue eyes.
‘Sir Ralph,’ I said, managing a condescending smile, and nodding my head in a casual manner as if I regularly sat down to break bread with murdering little shit-weasels.
And then I spoilt it all. I caught a waft of Murdac’s perfume, some foul lavender-based concoction and, as I always did when its odour raped my nostrils, I gave a mighty sneeze, a huge nasal trumpet blast, and then another. A chunk of half-chewed chicken shot out of my mouth and spattered the crisp white linen tablecloth.
‘I see your base-born manners have not improved,’ sneered Murdac. ‘But then, blood will out, as they say …’
‘Good God,’ croaked the Prince, interrupting his friend. ‘Are you sick, young Alan? You haven’t caught some Oriental plague, I trust, from your long sojourn in the Holy Land? Or some German ague? He-he-he!’ He seemed to find this very funny and chortled to himself for several moments, the red ringlets of his shoulder-length hair dancing with his merriment. Do not punch him in the face, Alan; do not do it, I thought. Be the cold-hot man. Be calm, or all is lost.
‘I am quite well, sire. It is perhaps a slight chill, that is all. I thank you for your royal concern.’
‘Well, I won’t keep you long, not if you’ve got a chill – or the dreaded plague. He-he-he! I understand that you wish to serve me – is this the truth?’
I merely nodded; I did not trust myself to speak.
‘Well, you are in luck. Sir Nicholas de Scras, one of my finest knights, has personally recommended you. And that is good enough for me. We know whom you served before, and indeed why you are seeking a new lord, but I think the least said about that affair on St Polycarpus’s Day the better. Don’t you?’
‘I don’t trust him,’ Murdac said bluntly. ‘I think he is a spy sent by Locksley and he means to betray you.’
I stared hard at Sir Ralph, boring into his chilly blue eyes with my own angry brown ones. But I kept my mouth shut. The cold-hot man, that was me.
‘Nonsense, Ralphie,’ said Prince John. ‘We were both there in the Temple Church when he betrayed his heretical master. We saw it with our own eyes; heard it with our own ears. And now that Locksley is loose, he will surely be coming for this fellow; very fond of vengeance is our Robert Odo. The boy’s clearly desperate; masterless, damn near penniless – he’s got nowhere else to turn.’
The Prince had dropped his shallow pretence of being a friendly, jolly companion; he was talking about me as if I were not even in the great hall, let alone seated two feet away from him.
‘We’ll watch him, of course. He has a well-earned reputation as a slippery fellow. Low-born fellow, too, I hear. But if he plays us false – well … we will deal with that if and when. I need fighting men, Ralphie. Besides, Nick de Scras vouches for him, and that’s good enough for me.’
Prince John looked at me directly now, and his voice changed and became harsh once more. ‘Let me speak plainly, Dale. I will give you the manors of Burford, Stroud and Edington. They lie in the West Country, not far apart from one another, and make up one knight’s fee. I expect you to do me faithful service in return. If you betray me, if you even disobey me, you will lose the manors – and your head. Am I clear? Now, do you accept my offer and will you swear to serve me loyally?’
‘I accept,’ I said.
‘Good,’ said the Prince. ‘I will have the charters drawn up and we will do the homage ceremony tomorrow at noon in the chapel. Now get out.’
I was on my feet before I knew it. ‘I thank you, sire, from the bottom of my heart for this opportunity to serve you,’ I said, bowing low. ‘I am most grateful for your royal kindness.’
But the Prince had returned to his plate of greasy chicken and so I bowed once more, ignoring Sir Ralph completely, and reflecting, as I made my way out of the great hall, that I would have to get better at this royal boot-licking. After all, I might be required to do it on a daily basis.
The next day after a solemn Mass in the great chapel, during which I prayed even more fervently for my soul than usual, I knelt before Prince John, placed my hands between his, and swore a solemn oath before God. We then exchanged the kiss of peace and I ceremonially received three bulky parchment scrolls, hung with big green and black discs of sealing wax, which confirmed me as the lord of the plump West Country manors of Burford, Stroud and Edington. It would seem that I was going up in the world.
After the ceremony, my new master called his knights together to witness what he called an ‘amusement’. A local freeman known as Wulfstan of Lenton had been accused of moving a marker stone, so as to encroach on some ploughland on one of Prince John’s estates. In reality, I had been told by a castle servant, a Nottingham man whom I knew slightly from earlier days, Prince John’s steward had moved the stone and Wulfstan had merely restored it to its original position. Normally, since good King Henry had reorganized the law, the case would have been tried by the defendant’s peers, twelve good men and true from the surrounding area, but Wulfstan clearly did not believe that he would receive a fair trial in a court packed with Prince John’s tenants and cronies. Thus, claiming that he was the great-grandson of Saxon thanes, and therefore had the right to bear arms, he demanded the old-fashioned wager of battle – to the death: a trial by combat.
He was a rather slack-witted man, as fair-haired as Goody and with a bushy beard obscuring his face, but he was as proud as Lucifer. And I cheered him, silently, deep in my heart, for preferring to fight than allow his ancestral lands to be encroached on by his powerful royal neighbour.
A square area about sixty foot on each side had been marked out with ropes in the outer bailey of the castle, inside the long wooden stockade that surrounded the entire fortification, but outside the stone walls of the castle itself. The stone core of Nottingham Castle was shaped like a swaddled baby, with a circular upper bailey at the south end – the baby’s head – and a slightly bigger oval middle bailey – the baby’s swaddled body – connected to it and lying directly to the north. Both upper and middle baileys were built on a massive sandstone outcrop, the highest landmark for miles around, and they were walled with granite and dotted with high square towers every fifty paces or so for extra strength. Between the upper and middle baileys, indeed connecting them at the baby’s neck, loomed the great tower, a high square stone fortress that was the ultimate stronghold of the constables of Nottingham, the final place of refuge in a siege, if all went badly for the defenders. On the eastern and northern sides of the castle was a wide area known as the outer bailey, filled with tradesmen’s shacks, animal pens, stables, workshops, cookhouses, a few guest halls, some storehouses and, next to a deep well, a large newly built brewhouse where the ale for the whole castle was made. The outer bailey was protected by a twenty-foot-high earth-and-timber stockade – the castle’s first line of defence.
The area roped off for the list lay to the north and east of the stone-built part of the castle, and it was thronged by castle denizens and by people from the thriving market town outside the walls to the east – my old hunting ground in my days as a hungry cutpurse.
The crowd was packed three deep around all four sides of the list and already there was a hum of excitement at the coming contest. Each combatant was to be armed with a sword and shield, and I suspected that Wulfstan might have believed that he was actually going to fight Prince John himself. If that was true, he was in for a shock, for John had naturally delegated a champion to do his fighting for him. I confess, when I saw who the champion was, I had to suppress a start of unease myself. And the sight of his huge companion had me reaching instinctively for my sword hilt.
The man who would do battle with Wulfstan was the tall, thin swordsman who had attacked me outside the walls of Ochsenfurt. His ogrish companion stood guarding Wulfstan with one massive hand holding him casually by the back of the neck as if he were measuring it.
I nudged a knight next to me and, indicating the two grotesque assassins, asked, ‘Who are those men?’
‘Have you not yet had the pleasure of their acquaintance?’ He smiled at me in a not altogether friendly way. ‘The tall one is called Rix,’ he continued. ‘The quickest man with a sword you will ever see. His gigantic friend is Milo – and, as you can judge for yourself, he is barely a man at all.’
‘They serve the Prince?’ I asked, although I already knew the answer.
‘They kill folk for him,’ was the knight’s terse reply. And he would say no more on the matter.
At a signal from Prince John, Milo released Wulfstan and gave him a little push so that he staggered into the centre of the roped-off square of packed earth. The freeman stood straight, rolled his shoulders, shook his arms to loosen the muscles and used a piece of leather thong to tie back his long thick blond hair. He was a man of about thirty, I guessed, of middle height, deep in the chest and strong from long days of labour in the fields. Wulfstan went over to the far corner of the list where a standard yard-long sword with a leather-wrapped wooden handle and a stout six-inch crosspiece had been propped next to a kite-shaped shield. These were weapons that were carried by any ordinary man-at-arms in England; indeed, their like could be seen slung on the backs and about the waists of about two dozen of the men who were crowded round the square field of battle at that very moment. I myself was carrying arms that were not dissimilar.
Then Rix entered the list, hopping over the rope on his long legs like a stork. He was dressed in a homespun tunic the colour of straw, belted at the waist, with his long sword hanging in a scabbard on his left side. He was bareheaded and his brown hair was cut short across the brow and shaved on the scalp at the back, high, from the neck up beyond his ears, in an old-fashioned style that would have suited a Norman of his great-grandfather’s day, one of William the Bastard’s men. His face, like his body, was long and lean, and he seemed entirely calm, like a man going about his daily business, rather than one about to engage in mortal combat to determine the Judgement of God.
Rix pulled the slung shield off his back and slid his left arm through the grips, and then he drew his sword. Once again I was struck by how beautiful the blade was: slightly slimmer than a normal weapon, and tapering gracefully to a razor point, the blade engraved with tiny golden letters along the fuller that ran down its centre. From where I stood, it was impossible to decipher their meaning. The magnificent blue sapphire, set into a thick ring of silver at the pommel, flashed as it caught the light on that bright spring day. It was a sword fit for a king, an Emperor even, and I wondered where he had obtained it. No doubt from some nobleman that he had slaughtered. I wanted it. I lusted after that sword; I desired it so much it was an ache in my heart.
But there was no time then for these covetous thoughts. At the crook of a finger from Prince John, who was seated in a high-backed chair in the middle of the northern side of the square and surrounded by his closest knights, Rix and Wulfstan came and stood before him, the blond Saxon eyeing his opponent with just a hint of trepidation. He was right to fear him, I thought. Standing in the eastern side of the square, I could see both men in profile, and I saw that Rix was a full head taller than his adversary, although with Rix’s slimness I would have guessed that Wulfstan weighed a shade more. Both men made a solemn declaration that they had not eaten that day and that they had no hidden witch’s enchantments or magical gewgaws about their bodies that would give them an unfair advantage in battle. Wulfstan then declared loudly that he was fighting to preserve his land, the land that had belonged to his father and his father’s father before that, and he called on God Almighty, Jesus Christ, and all the saints to aid him in this matter and prove for once and all time that his cause was right.
Then they began.
Wulfstan wasted no time. He charged at Rix with a wild yell and began to batter at the taller man with a welter of hard blows, wildly swinging with his strong right arm, and battering his opponent with powerful cuts at his head and shoulders. Rix fended off the attack with ease, blocking with his sword and letting the blows slide off his shield, slowly retreating before the fury of his foe. Wulfstan, I could see, was not unused to the sword: someone had instilled the rudiments in him and he would have made a decent if not particularly skilful manat-arms. I had trained worse men than him for Robin, and he had a passion, too, a rage in him that gave force to his sword cuts – he was fighting for his honour, for his family lands, and he knew in his heart that his cause was just.
But he was no match for Rix.
In the middle of a storm of blows from Wulfstan, the tall man’s long blade lanced out over the top of Wulfstan’s shield and plunged deep into the top of his opponent’s left shoulder. It was like the strike of an adder: fast, precise, deadly. Blood spurted red from the wound and Wulfstan fell back with a cry of rage and pain. His shield sagged, his torn shoulder muscles unable to support its weight. Then Rix struck again, once more on his opponent’s left side, the shield side, his sword flickering out almost delicately to carve a bloody furrow in Wulfstan’s cheekbone.
The blond farmer charged once more, red droplets flying from his face into the clear air; a howling surge of fury and desperation and blurring, hacking sword, but Rix merely blocked, dodged, ducked a blow, stepped forward and back-swung gracefully, chopping into the meat of his opponent’s bare right forearm. Wulfstan screamed and staggered back. He could barely hold up his shield with his left, and his sword arm now had a chunk of purple flesh flapping from it. He could no longer either attack his foe or properly defend himself and it was only a matter of time before blood loss pulled him down. He was a dead man – and he knew it. Every man watching knew it too.
A more merciful opponent would have finished him then, but Rix seemed to have no compassion in his lanky black soul. The next few minutes were excruciating, as Rix circled Wulfstan inflicting minor cut after minor cut. He slashed at his calves and drew a spray of blood, sliced into his side, into his right thigh, and carved a furrow on the right side of his face to match the one on the left side, this time taking the eye along with it. He was slowly cutting his opponent apart. Very slowly chopping the life from him.
The crowd had been cheering the display, whooping and applauding the first blood, but gradually the noise died away to a few scattered shouts as Rix played with Wulfstan as a cat plays with a wounded mouse. The Saxon could no longer protect himself, staggering about the square, weak with loss of blood, sword and shield held in drooping blood-slicked hands, and all the while Rix danced in and struck, each time leaving the man weaker and more gory, but disdaining to make the killing blow.
My stomach was sickened by this display. I have seen much of battle and death but this slow draining of a man’s courage and life force, mocking his pain and making sport with his pride, was too much for me. I looked over at Prince John, hoping that he would stop this cruel exhibition, but he sat there grinning, pointing and clearly sharing a joke with Sir Ralph Murdac, who was standing at his side.
The Saxon was by now on his knees in the centre of the list; he had dropped both sword and shield and he knelt there passively, head hanging low, beard dripping blood, as Rix took two steps in and sliced off an ear. Wulfstan made a low bellowing noise of pain and frustration but he barely moved except to rock to one side when the ear was lopped. He merely waited like a bullock for the release of death.
I had had enough.
I stepped over the ropes, and drew my sword.
‘Hey! You there, Rix, or whatever your name is. He is finished. Let him be,’ I said, striding into the centre of the square with my sword in hand.
It was an idiotic thing to do, and went against all the plans and stratagems that I had so carefully made. And, given his prowess with a sword, it was quite possibly suicidal, too. But I could not stand there and watch him torture a brave warrior any longer. So much for my being a cold-hot man.
Rix turned to face me, his beautiful blood-washed sword in hand. His smile broadened. ‘You have a proper weapon this time, boy, I see,’ he said in good French. ‘Not some child’s musical toy.’
Although he had insulted my much loved and very much missed vielle, I was pleased to note that he still bore the circular red mark from its strings around his neck. I lifted my blade and saluted him. ‘This time I do – and it is this weapon that will cut short your miserable life, you soulless, night-skulking man-butcher.’
‘No,’ shouted a harsh voice. ‘No, I will not have it! I will not have my men brawling with each other over a trivial matter such as this.’ Prince John had seen fit to take part in the dispute. ‘You sir, Dale – you will not interfere with my justice. This very morning you swore an oath to be my faithful vassal – have you proved to be an oath-breaker so soon? I command you to withdraw from the list. Now. And you, Rix: that is enough. You have done well, but you are dismissed. Let Milo deal with him.’
Rix shot me a malevolent glare. ‘We will try this matter another time,’ he said before wiping the gorgeous sword carelessly on his yellow tunic hem, sheathing it, turning his back on me, walking away and stepping long-legged over the rope to disappear into the crowd.
‘You’re damned right we will, you murdering bastard,’ I muttered, sheathing my own weapon. I walked back to the ropes, but I could not help myself from turning as I reached them. As I watched, the giant form of Milo padded over to the kneeling, blood-drenched Wulfstan, and with one seemingly effortless wrench of his meaty hands quickly snapped the man’s neck and sent him instantly to the next, and I most earnestly pray, better world.
Perhaps as a punishment for my unruly behaviour, Prince John decided that I should become a tax collector. With a shameless disregard for truth, decency and knightly honour that stole the very breath from my lungs, the Prince announced that he would take it upon himself to begin collecting the taxes to pay for King Richard’s ransom. He gathered a score of knights in the main courtyard of the middle bailey and harangued us for an hour about the fate of his poor brother, kept in chains in Germany, and exhorted us to hear no excuses, listen to no lies, to search every croft and cot diligently, and spare no one in gathering funds for the enormous ransom that doubtless would soon be demanded for his dear brother’s release. The ransom silver, Prince John informed us with a perfectly straight face, would be kept safely here in Nottingham Castle, under his watchful eye, until the time was right to release our beloved sovereign. This drew one or two sniggers from the assembled knights, but their merriment was quickly quelled by Sir Ralph Murdac’s cold blue eye searching for culprits in the throng. He stood beside his master like a faithful hound, in his shadow, shoulder wedged up high, and surveyed the crowd of fighting men in the courtyard for signs of disloyalty. Naturally his eye alighted on me. I gave him a big, toothy grin. And a lascivious wink.
No one in that packed bailey believed for a heartbeat that Prince John had any intention of handing over the silver once it was collected. And that was fine; we were all his loyal men, and we would all share in his future good fortune, if, Heaven forbid, something fatal were to befall good King Richard.
And so I became a tax collector, which was, I can heartily assure you, one of the most distasteful labours that I have ever undertaken.
A few days later, we cantered out of Nottingham: myself, a big sergeant and six mounted men-at-arms and a rat-like priest called Stephen. I had dispatched Hanno on some errand the day before and did not expect him back for several days. Father Stephen carried the parchment rolls in his saddlebags; the long lists therein recorded the wealth of every single hovel, cottage, farmstead and church in the manor of Mansfield, the area we had been assigned to gather revenue from that day. Other parties of knights and men-at-arms had been dispatched to various manors, towns, districts and villages for the same purpose, and there had been much discussion and some complaints when the assignments had been handed out by Sir Ralph Murdac. Some men had demanded larger areas, others had whined that the manors in their allotted sector were too poor to be worth much. It was clear that many of the knights who had flocked to Prince John’s banner were privately reckoning how much they could squeeze from the places they were taxing, and just how much they could get away with keeping for themselves. To swear allegiance to Prince John, I realized with a sinking heart, was to receive a licence to plunder.
England had made itself especially beautiful on that April morning as I rode north through Sherwood at the head of the column of eight men. The sun smiled down on us in a kindly manner, the sky was a deep untarnished azure, bright new green leaves rustled in the slight breeze, bluebells carpeted the shady ground beneath the tall trees, jays swooped among the branches and wood pigeons carolled sweetly to us as we passed. I glimpsed a hump-backed boar through the thick forest undergrowth, rooting for last year’s acorns; and a slender fallow deer, just standing and staring at us with its enormous eyes, and I was instantly transported to happier days, hunting with Robin and his outlawed men in these parts; days full of ale and laughter and comradeship and the excitement of the chase.
As we rode through villages, scattering piglets, chickens and geese before the hooves of our horses, I could see the peasants planting onions and leeks in the little plots of land outside their cottages, and peas and beans in the big communal fields outside the village. These were the men and women who worked, who supported the whole kingdom on their sturdy backs. My family had once been like them, and though I had risen to become a fighting man, I always reserved a loyalty for them, and a respect for their endurance and quiet courage. I knew these good people, I had grown up around them, as one of them. These were the folk whose sweat and toil would create the silver that one day, I prayed, would bring King Richard safely home.
We stopped at noon at an alehouse, and while my men ate bread and cheese and sucked down the local ale at a rough table in the sunshine outside the house, I spoke to them about our mission, and told them what I expected from them when we reached the manor of Mansfield.
‘We are not going there to loot,’ I said sternly to a gathering of big, violent men in iron-ringed coats with sharp swords strapped to their waists. ‘We are not going there to steal. We are going there to collect the rightful taxes that are due, and not a penny more.’
There was some grumbling and muttering at this. I waited patiently for silence and then continued:
‘Most especially we are not going to rape, or abuse, or kill anyone. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Begging your pardon, sir, but what is to be our share of the take?’ asked the sergeant, a fat man, grey at the temples and scarred from battle.
‘We do not share in what you call “the take”. Do you not receive a daily wage of two pennies from Prince John, a recompense for service to your lord? That is your share of the take. That is the money you are being paid to perform this labour. I want you all to understand this. Every coin that we raise will go to Nottingham. Father Stephen has the amounts that we are to collect listed on his rolls; we will collect them, with firmness and fairness, and deliver every penny to the account-keepers in the castle.’
There was an outbreak of tumult, angry men hammering pewter mugs on the tabletop and shouting at me. I had not made any new friends with my little speech. The priest, our lettered clerk, looked at me with his darting, rodent eyes; then he looked away quickly. I would find no support there.
‘So what do you get out of this, eh?’ said the sergeant. He was red in the face and waving his finger underneath my nose. ‘Kindly tell me – and the lads here – what your share will be. More than the few extra pennies we might have scraped up, I’ll be bound.’
I grabbed his finger in my left hand and his wrist in my right, and twisted, bending the digit back against the joint. He gave a high-pitched animal scream of pain that shocked the noisy table into silence. I leaned into him so that our faces were only inches apart.
‘When you address me, Sergeant, you call me “sir”. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ he said, and I could see that his fat face was greasy with pain-sweat.
‘Yes what?’ I demanded, and gave his finger joint a sharp twist. He howled again but managed to squeal: ‘Yes, sir! Yes, sir!’
‘Not a penny of this tax money will stick to my fingers – nor to yours. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Fine,’ I said, and released him. ‘Now, all of you, get mounted. This respite is over; we’re riding out.’
The mood in our little cavalcade after that was as sour as a bucket of week-old milk that someone has pissed in. I rode at the head of the column, with the sergeant riding immediately behind me, nursing his twisted finger and shooting me looks of molten hatred. I suspected that I was the least popular captain in England that afternoon – but I did not care. I did not believe they would try to murder me, and risk incurring the wrath of Prince John. And if they did not like me, well, I could live with that. The most worrying thing was that I could hear the echoes of Robin’s voice in my ear saying, Interesting – once again you turn to violence, Alan; inflicting pain to impose your will. I’ll make a real man of you yet!
I began to sing loudly to myself as I rode, chiefly to drive the sound of Robin’s laughter from my head.