Chapter Six
I was upset and angry with myself all that day for having made Goody cry – I was very fond of her after all. And, perhaps rashly, I accepted an invitation to go drinking with Bernard that evening. My old vielle teacher took me to a tavern by the river, under the sign of the Blue Boar, where, he said, the wine was expensive but the wenches were cheap. It was a dreary place, one big low room with greasy rushes on the floor and a fire burning in a walled central hearth. At a long counter against one wall, the owner manned barrels of wine and ale, serving us foaming flagons of greenish wine from Germany between wiping at the grime on a shelf of pewter mugs with a dirty rag. Two slatternly girls, full-breasted but clad in nothing more than grubby light chemises, flitted about the place, bringing our drinks to the table with a plate of stale bread, cold pork and pickles. But while I had no appetite for women or food, I drank with sincere conviction, aiming to find oblivion and wash away my feeling of shame with long draughts of the tavern-keeper’s surprisingly good Rhenish wine.
Bernard was dressed in bright silks and was in fine form, cracking jokes, his nose glowing with wine, and telling me about a new work he was composing – I forget the details now, but he claimed it would set the noble houses of Europe ablaze with the exquisite beauty of his music and its wondrously clever rhymes. He insisted on singing a few snatches to me, rudely demanding silence from the two or three other drinkers in the tavern – strangers, of course, rough men by the look of them, who did not take kindly to being told to be quiet by some foppish drunk – while he sang, beating the tabletop with the palm of his hand to keep time. I conceded that it was a decent enough composition, but Bernard seemed disappointed in my response. He then began to tell me about his love affairs with the ladies of Queen Eleanor’s court: they were many and very complicated.
It was clear to me, as my friend boasted and lied outrageously, that he was having the time of his life as Eleanor’s trouvère. However, such was my black humour that I could respond to Bernard’s bright chatter only with grunts and nods. Indeed, I must have been lamentable company, but he took it in good part. For a while I stopped listening entirely and stared around the dingy tavern, my eye eventually alighting on a big, dark-haired man who was muttering to himself and shooting evil glances our way as he stood drinking ale from a gallon pot in the corner.
I tore my gaze from the man, and turned back to Bernard to hear him say: ‘… and when the poor villein complained about the burdens of being a father and asked for compensation for his daughter’s lost virginity, Prince John had him chained in his dungeon in a lead cope. As the heavy metal sheet was fitted around the man’s neck and shoulders, and knowing that the cope would slowly crush him to death, Prince John said: “How’s that for a father’s burden!” Which was considered very witty by everyone – well, everyone except the poor man with a hundred pounds of lead round his neck!’ Bernard laughed like a lunatic, slapping his knee and calling for another flagon of wine.
Eventually, realizing that even his funniest stories could not lift my spirits, my friend disappeared into a back room with one of the slatterns. I finished my wine and was just thinking of settling up with the owner and going to bed, when I looked up from my stool to find the big, dark-haired man looming over me, a thick oak cudgel held casually over one broad shoulder.
‘I don’t like you,’ he said, and glowered at me. He had a rough southern accent, and was clearly very drunk. ‘I don’t like you at all, or your friend, or any of your kind,’ he continued. ‘Musicians, trouvères or whatever you call yourselves – you’re nothing but pedlars of soppy ditties, mincing little sodomites, lickspittles to any lord who will listen to your Goddamned noise.’
The tavern-keeper called over from the ale tuns, where he was polishing a metal tankard: ‘You behave yourself now, Tom. Leave the musical gentleman alone. We don’t want any trouble here.’
The big man – Tom, apparently – ignored him.
‘I don’t like you …’ he began again. But I had had more than enough.
‘You know something? I don’t think I care for you much either,’ I said, looking up at him. ‘So why don’t you take yourself out of my face and go and find a pig to f*ck – one that’s not too choosy about its bed-mates.’
Tom leaned further over me, his huge bulk nearly blocking out the dim light in that grimy den. ‘You listen to me you little poof—’
And I thought: Yes, this will do. This is what I’ve wanted all night.
My sword was with my other belongings at Westminster Hall, but my misericorde was snug in my boot. In fact, I had no need of either. I merely launched myself directly upwards, using all the power in my young legs, surging straight up with the force of a battering ram, the top of my skull smashing into his mouth with stunning force. Tom staggered back and, now standing, I went up on to the balls of my feet and whipped my forehead forward in a short, hard arc, crunching it into his nose in a second devastating headbutt. My poll smashed into his face like a boulder crushing a loaf of new bread. He stumbled away, spitting blood and teeth, a look of dazed incomprehension on his big ugly face, and I lashed out with my right boot, catching him squarely in the fork of his crotch. He doubled over, mooing in agony. Taking a step back, I swept up the stool I had been sitting on, swung hard and shattered the heavy wooden disc of the seat over the back of his head. Like a felled tree he toppled over slowly and crashed to the floor, landing in a senseless heap on the dirty rushes, bleeding quietly but copiously from a jagged split in the back of his scalp.
I looked up to find the tavern owner staring at me in amazement. Trying to control the shaking in my hands from my sudden surge of rage, I fished in the purse at my waist and threw a handful of coins on to the counter. ‘That’s for the wine – and the stool,’ I said, making for the doorway. ‘And you’d better give that great ox a drink of ale when he wakes.’
I had thought that a night of boozing and brawling might make me feel better about Goody – it did not. The next day I woke with an aching head and a deep sense of guilt. I hoped I had not killed Tom in the fight the night before. He did not deserve to die for being a drunken boor.
I mentioned the boating affair with Goody to Marie-Anne that day, hoping that as a woman she would know what I could do to make things right with my young friend.
‘I would not trouble yourself too much about it,’ said the Countess of Locksley, as we shared a cold supper in her chambers. I had been summoned to entertain her while Robin was ensconced with the Queen discussing King Richard’s plight. Marie-Anne must have sensed that my heart wasn’t in my music, for after I had picked my way through a few of her favourite cansos, she invited me to set down my vielle and bow and join her in her meal.
‘Girls that age have a difficult time, stuck halfway between childhood and the full bloom of a woman,’ she said. ‘She ought to be married by now, really, and have babies to care for, but as she has neither land nor money, it is difficult for her to attract the right suitors.’
‘But she is truly beautiful, she has a lovely face – surely there must be some men who are interested,’ I said. Marie-Anne gave me a slantendicular look. ‘You could always write her a song,’ she said, ‘if you wanted to make amends. I’m sure she would appreciate it, and it would be a fine way to tell her that you are sorry.’
I considered this. It was a good idea, I thought. ‘I’ll do it,’ I said. ‘But …’ And at that moment the chamber door opened and a little bundle of raw energy on two pudgy legs came barrelling in, running straight up to Marie-Anne with a delighted cry of ‘Maman!’, pursued by a red-faced nursemaid. ‘I am so sorry for disturbing you, my lady,’ she said breathlessly, ‘but he got away from me while I was sorting out his clothes chest.’
‘That’s quite all right, Ysmay,’ said Marie-Anne, scooping up little Hugh in her arms, smoothing his black hair and bestowing a kiss on his soft pale cheek. I rose from my stool and was about to make my excuses and leave when the Countess stopped me: ‘Alan, do you think … when the weather is a little clearer … you could arrange for myself and Hugh to take a boat ride downriver with you? Not a grand outing, just a few of us. Perhaps you could ask your friend Perkin …’
I told her that it would be my pleasure to arrange it, bowed low and left the chamber.
The day I chose for Marie-Anne’s boating expedition was bright and clear, and surprisingly warm – it was almost spring-like although we were still only halfway through February. Our party was made up of the Countess, little Hugh and his nursemaid Ysmay, myself, Perkin and Tuck, who as Marie-Anne’s personal chaplain had taken to carrying a wooden cross as tall as he was. The cross, as well as being the holy symbol and a badge of office, served as a walking staff to support my corpulent friend, who by now was well into middle age – though he did not like his juniors to remind him of the fact.
I had spoken to the Bishop of London, a kindly man named Richard FitzNeal, who was staying at Westminster in order to give counsel to the Queen at this time of crisis, asking on behalf of the Countess whether we might visit his manor of Fulham, a few miles upstream. The gardens there were said to be of surpassing beauty and I thought Marie-Anne might enjoy them. Bishop Richard was a wonderful old stick, past sixty years of age but still vigorous and very learned – his book about the administration of the kingdom was very highly regarded – and he was happy for us to enjoy his manor.
‘Of course, my dear boy, of course,’ he said. ‘I shall send ahead and make sure everything is prepared for you when you arrive. Would the Countess not like to stay there for several days? I am busy here with the Queen, but if she would like a break from court life she would be very welcome to stay at Fulham, for weeks if she wants to; masses of room, nobody there but the servants …’
I assured the good bishop that we were merely going there for the day, this coming Thursday, but I was warmed by his generosity. I left him issuing orders to his clerks to have his people in Fulham prepare for our arrival with a lavish meal and the finest wines. Marie-Anne was very popular at Westminster; her beauty and charm – and, the more cynical might say, her close friendship with Queen Eleanor – made her someone that the entire Court seemed to adore. And even elderly bishops were not immune to her charms, it seemed.
The skiff was fully laden as Perkin shoved off and he and I took our places at the oars. The going was hard; moving the bulk of the fully laden boat against the current required a good deal of sweat and muscle power from my snub-nosed friend and me, but I was young and strong in those days and I did not mind that we were going upstream. It would make the afternoon all the sweeter when, full of the bishop’s good food and drink, we would be able to glide back down to Westminster with the minimum of effort.
As I hauled on the long pinewood oar, I faced backwards, timing my stroke with Perkin, who was seated to my left. And it was Perkin who first alerted me to the small black ship. As we stroked our way slowly up the river, heading due south at that point, Perkin turned to me and, nodding at a dark, low form behind us, on our side, the western side of the river, but closer into the bank, he said quietly: ‘That bugger is moving very strangely. Going too slow for a craft that size. Must have at least ten oarsmen, but it’s moving no faster than we are.’
He was right; the small ship, a low, clinker-built vessel, its sides daubed with pitch, with a single mast but no sail hoisted, was being rowed by five men on each side and yet it seemed to move at the same pace as us. In fact, it might be said to be following us.
At first I was just idly curious, but after half an hour had passed, I began to be slightly alarmed. The river had turned west and we were now sticking close to the northern shore, but the black ship was still there behind us. And it was more conspicuous for the fact that, on that clear day, in that part of the river, there was very little traffic on the water.
I was certain now that the ship was following us, and no sooner was that thought born than the vessel began to move more speedily, coming up fast on the landward side. I cursed my decision not to engage a bigger boat for our jaunt that day, for in Perkin’s small skiff there had been no room for extra bodies and the only fighting men on board were myself and Tuck, although I suspected that Perkin could handle himself in a tight situation, and I noticed that he wore an evil-looking long dagger at his belt.
I looked sideways at the waterman and it seemed that we both had the same thought simultaneously. Perkin muttered: ‘River pirates; God damn their black souls!’ I was too intent on pulling on my oar as powerfully as I could to reply. But for all our efforts we were losing the race.
The black ship was now almost level with us, positioning itself between our skiff and the north bank of the Thames, about a hundred paces away, where the little village of Chelsea was laid out on the shore, the wind blowing the smoke of dozens of cooking fires towards us. Crouched in the prow of the black ship I could see more than half a dozen armed men, rough-looking fellows armed with swords, clubs and spears, dressed in greasy furs and leather armour, but with no distinguishing badges to say whom they served. To a man, they were eyeing us hungrily. Perkin and I braced our feet against the skiff’s ridged wooden bottom, and put our backs into the task of rowing. The river turned south at that point and we tried to cut straight across to the other side, to a marshy area where there was a village on an island known as Battersea.
The river was less than half a mile wide at this point and with God’s help, and by rowing with all our might, I hoped we could make it to the wild swampy grassland on the southern shore where we could try to lose our pursuers or find a hiding place. We would have done it, too, but for one factor: the wind. It was blowing directly from the north and as we, in our little open rowing boat, headed south, the black ship hoisted a grubby white sail and her oarsmen increased the pace and turned south to follow us.
They overhauled us rapidly, slicing swiftly through the water like a great dark fish. Even with Perkin and myself straining every muscle, there was no way we could escape. The happy chatter in the skiff had ceased, and all eyes were now on our pursuers.
‘Who are those men?’ asked Marie-Anne in a small but calm voice. She was clutching little Hugh to her bosom.
‘I do not know, my lady, but I fear that they mean us harm.’
The black ship was by now no more than thirty yards away and still coming on apace, oars flashing in time, the sail bellying out. The southern shore was a good hundred and fifty yards away; indeed, we were smack in the middle of the river. There was no way that we could outrun the black ship and so I relinquished my oar to Perkin, stood up, made my way to the stern of the rocking boat, and drew my sword. I heard Tuck coming up behind me, and soon I felt his comforting bulk at my side. Perkin was holding his oar upright in both hands, breathing hard, the boat drifting gently with the current of the river. As the black ship approached, I looked at the half-dozen ruffians jostling each other in the prow: big, ugly bastards, all grinning at me. One man was actually licking his lips.
Tuck lifted his heavy wooden cross in his right hand, holding it out towards the black ship, as if to ward off evil. ‘Who are you?’ he boomed across the water. ‘Why do you trouble good Christian folk as they go about their lawful business?’
‘We come with an invitation for the Lady Marie-Anne and her son,’ said a big, grey-bearded brute, armed with a rusty sword; he was the lip-licker. ‘She is invited to spend a little time with some noble friends of ours. Hand her and her son over and we’ll let you go in peace. That’s a promise.’
‘Lay a finger on her and I’ll cut out your liver and feed it to the fish,’ I said, as calmly as I could, though my heart was banging. ‘That is my promise to you.’
I was very conscious of the fact that I wore no hauberk, just a light woollen tunic and hose, with my sword belt over the top. But I had a weapon in each hand, sword in my right, misericorde in my left, and I was determined to send some of these bastards to Hell before they got anywhere near my lady.
Behind me I heard Marie-Anne say, ‘Alan, perhaps if we could just talk …’ but there was no more time for words. The black ship surged forward under the power of her oarsmen, crashing into the side of our little boat and nearly capsizing it. Grappling hooks flew out, bit into the sides of our skiff, were pulled in and held fast. The grey-beard wasted no time; he leapt across from his prow, swinging his sword at my head. He landed with a crash on the stern seat of Perkin’s skiff, and I ducked just in time as the blade hissed over my bare head. I came up and took a step forward; he was overbalanced from his swipe, and I punched the misericorde with a left-hand roundhouse blow into his side, crunching through ribs, the sharp triangular point raking deep into his lungs. He howled with pain and shock and I followed the first strike with a smash to his face with the pommel of my sword, mashing lips and teeth. He dropped his sword and toppled back into his own ship with a scream of rage, spitting blood, but I had no time to watch his progress. A spear was stabbed hard at my face and I leaned back and to the side, allowing the shaft to slide over my shoulder, then I chopped down with my sword into the arm of the spearman, almost severing his limb at the elbow.
Beside me, Tuck was swinging the heavy cross in wide sweeps. The crosspiece caught one of the pirates in the side of the face, crushing his eye and hurling him into the sea with a shrill bird-like cry. Another man bounded across from the black ship wielding a huge double-handed axe. Tuck caught the swing of the weapon in the crosspiece of his staff, but the blade sheared the tough wood in half, leaving the middle-aged monk with nothing more than a heavy stick in his hands. I leapt forward, keeping low to avoid a wild swing from the axeman, and sliced open his neck with my sword. As he died, he sprawled on to me, knocking me to the floor of the skiff. I pushed his gory corpse away, our legs tangled, and I watched with horror as more enemies jumped aboard and surrounded Marie-Anne and Hugh at the far end of the craft.
I saw Perkin bash a leaping man on the shoulder with his long clumsy oar, and then drop it, draw his dagger and plunge it into the belly of another man, but a pirate’s swinging club found the back of his head and he dropped immediately, legs unstrung, into the bottom of the boat. There was a knot of men around Marie-Anne. A heavily bearded man punched her hard in the temple with his mailed fist, knocking her down to her knees, and I saw little Hugh being lifted screaming and kicking high above the fray in enemy hands, then passed above the heads of the knot of men around Ysmay, away and over to the black ship. I shouted a curse, struggled to my feet and lunged forward again, but my sword was checked by a tall boarder with a long moustache, and while I hacked and slashed desperately at him – he showing some unusual skill and checking my passage forwards – I realized that the rest of the pirates were leaving the skiff, many scratched and bleeding, cutting the grappling irons loose and leaping back into their own craft. I feinted low at the moustached man’s groin with my sword, stepped forward, twisted a full circle inside his reach and slammed the misericorde into his left ear, backhand, hard, into his brain. The only pirates on board our little vessel now were corpses.
Already five yards of grey water separated us from the black ship, which was rapidly pulling away, our foes jeering at us and waving their weapons. I ducked as a spear was hurled at my head. When I straightened again, I saw that I was the only person still standing in our boat. Perkin was unconscious, lying in a bloody pool in the scuppers; Ysmay the nurse was gone – hacked apart while trying to protect her charge; her small severed hand lay on the rowing bench in a pool of black blood like a delicate white crab. Marie-Anne was slumped across the prow, but by the movement of her bosom she was clearly still breathing, praise God. Tuck had taken a sword thrust to the arm, which had cut deeply into the big muscles there. Only I was unscathed.
I looked after the fast-disappearing black ship and lifted my blood-clotted sword, pointing it threateningly towards them, silently hoping that one day God might allow me to have my vengeance on them. In return, one of the pirates lifted a small black-haired bundle, squealing with rage, short pudgy legs kicking in his fury. I could clearly see the blue kidskin shoes on his little feet. It was Hugh. I’d been responsible for the loss of my mistress’s only son, the heir to the Earldom of Locksley.
And the thought hit me like a kick from an angry mule: now I’d have to break the news to Robin.