Chapter Seven
‘You say you are sorry? Sorry? You took my wife and my son out on the river for a childish jaunt, away from the safety of Westminster Hall and our men, with no protection whatsoever. Not a single man-at-arms!’ Robin’s voice was an icy whip. ‘And now, my wife has been beaten unconscious, her maidservant murdered, and my son kidnapped. And you stand there and say you are sorry.’
Robin’s eyes glinted like a drawn knife in the darkness. And I wondered if he would kill me on the spot or devise appalling tortures to prolong the agony.
‘There was no room on the boat for anyone else,’ I mumbled. ‘I thought we would be safe enough. No one knew where we were going …’ I could not continue with my defence. I looked at Robin, at his pale expressionless face and blazing eyes, and I could find no more words. It was hopeless; I was entirely to blame for the loss of Hugh and I merely hoped my death would be swift.
‘No one knew where you were going? Half of Westminster knew about your little trip; when you told the Bishop of London, you might as well have written out your itinerary and nailed it up on the Abbey door …’
Robin paused and took a big gulp of air. ‘Just … Just get out – go! I don’t even want to look at you.’ He turned away, scrubbing his eyebrows with the heels of his palms.
I made a fast bow and backed away hurriedly, relief blossoming in my heart. At least I was still alive – for the moment.
Tuck was sympathetic when I told him how I had been publicly lambasted by my master. ‘It’s God’s will, of course; it’s always God’s will,’ said my tubby old friend as I was helping him to bandage his wounded arm in the infirmary of Westminster Abbey. ‘In a sense, you could say it was not your fault at all – though I wouldn’t suggest you say that to Robin just at the moment. God meant for little Hugh to be captured or He would not have allowed it to happen. It’s as simple as that. And He meant for me to take this wound, otherwise it would not have happened.’
I envied Tuck his deep faith; he always seemed to be serene, putting his trust in the Lord and allowing the world to go whichever way God wished. Not that he was passive; he always did and said what he thought was right, quite fearlessly, but he was not perturbed when things went against him, or when someone else suffered a setback. He was totally convinced of the existence of a Divine plan, and while he might not know his part in it, he was content to surrender himself to the will of the Almighty.
My own faith had been rocked by the useless slaughter I had seen in the Holy Land, by the killing of good men for no good reason. I could not believe that a merciful God would allow such terrible things to happen. But he did. And while Tuck said it was all part of a plan, I sometimes wondered, in my most secret heart – and doubtless I shall be damned for these evil thoughts – whether God was truly much concerned with the fate of humanity. Perhaps it is the Devil that rules the Earth and God is unable, or too indifferent, to put a stop to his works.
Needless to say, I did not voice such heretical misgivings to Tuck. Instead I asked him to hear my confession, and received the comfort that only a well-worn ritual can bestow. We went to the Abbey church of St Peter and, kneeling beside him on the cold stone floor, I told him of all the folk I had killed in Outremer, in cold blood and in hot; and of the evil I had seen done, and of the evil things I had done. I told him, on my knees and humbly begging God’s forgiveness, of a servant boy I had killed, and why I had done it; of a lovely Arab slave girl whom I had thought I loved, and with whom I had committed many carnal sins. Her name was Nur, and she had been the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. But my enemy, an evil man named Malbête, had taken her and, to punish me, he had cut off her nose and lips and ears and spoiled that transcendent beauty for ever. But perhaps my sin was greater than Malbête’s, for I had told Nur that I loved her, I had promised that I would always love and protect her; and yet, and yet … It is still hard for me to admit this: when Malbête had hacked away her beauty, I found that I did not love her, that I could not love her as I had promised. And so she had left me, taking her poor disfigured face away to hide it from the world in shame.
Then I told Tuck about a good man, a noble knight, a friend whom I had seen cut down by thieves – and how I had never taken revenge for him, never punished his murderer. For the murderer of this good man was Robin, my master.
And of all these sins Tuck absolved me, lifting a terrible weight from my heart, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.
The next day at dusk, Robin summoned Tuck and myself to a private chamber leading off Westminster Hall. Though he was cool with me it seemed that Robin had overcome his fury of the day before. He was not alone: Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine was seated in a corner of the room on a vast throne, flanked by the loyal Archbishop of Rouen, Walter de Coutances, in a slightly smaller chair. There were two other churchmen in the room, shadowy figures in the white habits of Cistercian monks, standing silently against the far wall, and a handful of servants and clerks scurrying around with parchments and scrolls.
Robin got straight to the point. ‘These two gentlemen are the abbots of the great Cistercian houses of Boxley and Robertsbridge; they are men of God; men of peace, not war,’ he said, looking directly at Tuck and myself. ‘The Queen has selected them to go to Germany to seek out King Richard and try to establish contact with him. Father Tuck was to have accompanied them on this difficult, and possibly dangerous journey, to act both as my representative and to offer a measure of physical protection against footpads, outlaws, wild men of the road and the like.’
Robin said this with a perfectly straight face. A few short years ago, two peace-loving abbots would have been exactly the sort of traveller that he would have preyed on should they have been so foolish as to venture into Sherwood Forest. I heard Queen Eleanor give an amused chuckle at Robin’s words. I wisely kept silent.
‘Since Father Tuck has been injured,’ Robin continued, looking hard at me, ‘and because you are to blame for his injuries, it has been decided that in three days’ time you will accompany these venerable abbots to Germany and see to it that they come to no harm.’ He fixed me with his cold silver-grey gaze. ‘I am in deadly earnest, Alan: this mission is of the utmost importance to the kingdom. You must not take any risks with these good men’s lives.’
I admit I was taken aback. I had expected some sort of punishment, but it seemed that instead of chastisement, I was to be sent on a journey. I was excited, quite elated in fact. It was an adventure: to go off across the world to seek out my King. Trying not to show my happiness, I made my way across to the two abbots and solemnly kissed the rings on their hands in respectful greeting.
They were a dour pair, both tall and slender, with greying hair shaved neatly in a circle at the crown in the clerical tonsure. Indeed, they were so alike in their looks, dress and demeanour that at first I took them to be brothers. They were not, of course, but over the next few weeks that I spent with them, they sometimes seemed as indistinguishable as twins.
As I made to leave, the Queen addressed me. ‘When you find my son,’ she said, in her haughty, smoky burr, ‘ – you will notice that I do not say “if” – when you find my son Richard, you will tell him that we in England will do everything we can to ensure his swift release. He must not despair; tell him to put his trust in God and … tell him that his mother will not fail him in his hour of need.’
She was perhaps the greatest lady in Christendom; during her long life she had reigned over lands stretching from the Pennines to the Pyrenees, been married to the two most powerful Christian monarchs, the kings of England and France, and controlled the fate of millions of souls, yet, in that moment, I saw her for what she truly was: a mother whose beloved son was at the mercy of his enemies.
The next day I spent mostly with Robin and Tuck, looking at very rough old charts of the rivers of Germany, Austria and the Holy Roman Empire, and discussing a host of schemes and plans. The two abbots joined us briefly, but they seemed to be ignorant of the area we would be travelling to and were under the impression that I was to be their guide. They were happy, it seemed, to put their trust in me – although I had never been to those parts before and was no more familiar with them than I was with the mountains of the moon – and, if I were to falter, in a higher power. ‘God will steer us in the right direction,’ said one with a pious smile; whether it was Boxley or Robertsbridge I could not say. I was already having difficulty telling them apart.
There was nothing for it but to recruit help; a man with genuine knowledge of the area and a perfect command of the local language, too: Hanno.
My round-headed friend was overjoyed to be joining me on this journey; it was a chance for him to revisit his homeland, and perhaps see something of his friends and family. And I was pleased to have him with us, for he was a master of most types of warfare and, though I did not doubt my own abilities in this arena, I was taking my role as protector of the abbots seriously and Hanno would be invaluable to have at my side in a fight. He joined me in Robin’s quarters, and the three of us were discussing which religious houses we might safely stay at on our journey, when the door flew open and Marie-Anne came striding into the room. It was clear that she had been weeping, and there was an evil purple bruise on the side of her blotched face that was only partially covered by her white linen headdress. In one hand she was holding out a scroll of yellow parchment, sealed with wax and tied with a red ribbon, a letter. Her other hand was held out of sight behind her back.
‘This came for you,’ said Marie-Anne, thrusting the rolled parchment at Robin, her voice trembling with emotion, a mixture of rage, hope and fear.
‘And with it came … this!’ Marie-Anne pulled her hand from behind her: she was holding a tiny blue shoe, a shoe that I had last seen on the end of Hugh’s foot as the black ship pulled swiftly away from us over the grey waters of the Thames.
I never read that letter, although its full import was made very clear to me that evening. On the surface it was another courteous invitation for Robin to present himself at the new Temple Church the next day – St Polycarpus’s Day – to answer before the inquisition convened by the Order of the Temple the charges of heresy, demon-worship, blasphemy and other assorted acts of wickedness. There was no mention of little Hugh at all. And yet the real meaning was entirely clear. Either Robin submitted to the Templars’ justice or his son and heir would die. The letter requested Robin to present himself, unarmed and with only two attendants, at the Templars’ Gate at noon the next day. Robin’s face was quite expressionless as he scanned the missive. I saw him look up at Marie-Anne and hand her the letter to read. Her face, in contrast, became white and worried, and she began to gnaw at her little finger as she looked at him, her big blue eyes beseeching. Robin hesitated for only a single heartbeat, and then he smiled. It was a bright, warm, comforting smile, a loving smile that made a solemn promise, and he opened his arms wide and she fell into them weeping, but this time with relief. They were enfolded in a tight embrace for a long time, the only sound that of muffled sobbing from Marie-Anne as she crushed her face against Robin’s neck, while Hanno and I exchanged embarrassed glances.
‘Well,’ said Robin, finally releasing his Countess. ‘It seems that I have underestimated these people. Alan, would you be kind enough to call for one of the Queen’s messengers. I think we need to make the terms for the boy’s release absolutely crystal clear.’
I knew in my heart what Robin was about to do. He was about to willingly put his head into a Templar noose to save the life of a little boy – a boy who was not even his true son. Whatever Robin had done in the past, whatever selfish sins he had committed, he was still willing to sacrifice his own life in an instant, to burn at the stake, a hideously painful and slow death, for love of his wife, for love of Marie-Anne and her bastard son Hugh, the progeny of an enemy.
I should not have been surprised by Robin’s actions, as I knew him well by then and fully understood his outlook. He had explained it to me years before, quite soon after I had joined his group of outlaws. ‘There are two kinds of people in the world, Alan,’ he said, ‘those inside my circle, whom I love and serve and who love and serve me – and those outside it.’
At the time I merely thought he was giving me a warning, and I had nodded enthusiastically to show that I understood, but later I realized he was explaining his personal doctrine to me. Robin had continued: ‘Those inside the circle are precious to me, and while they are faithful, I will always be loyal to them and do my utmost to protect them, even at the cost of my own life. Those outside this circle,’ he shrugged, ‘they are nothing.’ The way he said it had sent a chill down my spine.
When I contemplate Robin’s crimes, the acts of selfishness and cruelty that most appalled me, I try to remember that it was always people outside his charmed circle, or those who had betrayed him, who suffered by his actions. For those inside the circle, such as Marie-Anne, and little Hugh, and even myself, he would gladly die.
We rode east up the Strondway, the broad street leading towards London, in force: twenty mounted men-at-arms in full war gear, armed with sword, shield and spear, as well as Robin, Tuck, myself and Marie-Anne. Our route took us past the inn of the Bishop of Exeter, which was shut tight and locked, the bishop being away from town, through the raised wooden barrier of the Templar Bar and into Fleet Street. At the Temple Gate, we halted outside the round arch of the entrance while a standard bearer carrying Robin’s personal flag, a black-and-grey wolf’s head snarling from a white background, blew a trumpet to alert the occupants to our presence, although there was strictly no need, as I had already seen a man scurrying away into the Outer Court to inform his Templar masters that we had arrived. The sun was high, a pale coin in a grey February sky, and we waited without speaking, the only sound the occasional clop of a horse’s hoof, a whinny or two and the gentle jingle of steel bridle parts as the horses shook their heads.
As we waited, I looked east up the muddy street, past various huts and dwellings, past an alehouse and a pie shop to a large open-fronted building on the north side of the road, where a fire was roaring under a large, smoke-blackened metal hood. As I watched, a huge muscular man with a mop of bright blond hair and what looked like a leather patch over one eye pulled a strip of metal from the fire and began to hammer at it on an anvil in front of the forge. The blacksmith was half a bowshot away with his back to me, and yet, as I observed him knocking flakes of orange metal from the half-made sword blade with powerful strokes of his hammer, I had the strange feeling that I knew him from somewhere. But that, surely, was impossible – I knew almost nobody in London. Silently I willed him to turn and look at us, so that I might identify him, but he remained bent over the anvil, bashing away at the red-hot metal while turning it with a great pair of pincers. That in itself was slightly odd. Who would not stop work for a few moments and turn to gawp at a conroi of heavily armed cavalry a hundred yards away? Perhaps he was entirely intent on his work, I mused, or deaf from the constantly ringing blows of his hammer, as well as half-blinded.
My attention was soon diverted from the industrious blacksmith by the arrival at the gate of a Templar knight, accompanied by six tough-looking Templar sergeants dressed in black tunics over their hauberks and armed with swords and spears. I saw that the knight was Sir Aymeric de St Maur, the man I had met in Pembroke Castle, who had called Robin a demon-worshipper. And in his mailed fist, gripped securely, was the arm of a squirming little boy.
I heard Marie-Anne give a sharp cry and out of the corner of my eye I saw her slip from the saddle and run over to Hugh. But before she could reach him and take him into her arms, Sir Aymeric raised a commanding hand, palm faced forward, that stopped her in her tracks. And I saw that one of the sergeants was now holding a knife to little Hugh’s throat. ‘Surrender yourself, unarmed,’ said the knight, over Marie-Anne’s head directly to Robin. But Robin was already moving, sliding off his horse with easy grace. My master lifted his arms wide to show he carried no weapon and advanced to the Temple Gate. I dismounted from Ghost as quickly as I could, and Tuck and I, both of us unarmed, went over to join Robin in the entrance to the Templar’s court. Marie-Anne was fussing over little Hugh, kissing him and murmuring endearments, and she barely had time to cast her husband a grateful glance before Robin, Tuck and I were surrounded by the Templar men-at-arms and marched down the dark, narrow corridor and into the Outer Court.
As we tramped away from Marie-Anne and Hugh and Robin’s well-armed troopers, I had the strongest impression that we were marching through the portals of Hell. Behind us, I heard the gate slam shut with a hollow boom.
The Outer Court of the New Temple compound was a large area with a packed-earth floor, with low wattle-and-daub buildings – a granary, a brewery, various storehouses, barracks and servants’ quarters – dotted about here and there. To the south was a neatly kept orchard of apple and pear trees, extending down to a scatter of huts and a wooden wharf on the River Thames. We saw little of it, however, as we were almost immediately hustled to the left, heading east through a covered walkway along the side of the Grand Master’s house and into the Temple Church itself. I had never been inside it before, and, in spite of my anxiety for Robin, I was struck by the grave beauty, even majesty, of the building. We passed through a heavy iron-bound door set in a round arch at its western end and into the main chamber. Some twenty paces across, filled with pale yellow sunlight and perfectly round, it was said to have been built in imitation of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, the site of the tomb of Christ, which, alas, despite my long sojourn in the Holy Land, I’d never had the good fortune to visit.
Six huge black pillars formed a ring at the centre of the space; these supported a circular upper storey. I peered up towards the domed roof, where six vast windows allowed the sparse February sunshine to pour in. On the ground floor, a couple of dozen men were milling around, talking quietly amongst themselves; many wore white surcoats with the red breast cross of Templar knights, others were clad in the more colourful attire of secular noblemen. A few men had already taken their places on the stone bench that ran around the outer wall. Over in the north-eastern quadrant of the church I caught sight of Richard FitzNeal, the silver-haired Bishop of London, looking worried as he took his seat.
Straight ahead of me, due east, was the chancel, a twenty-yard-long rectangular chamber, which extended off the circular main space and housed the altar and an enormous golden crucifix bearing the figure of Our Lord twisted in His Passion. Crossing myself, I muttered a quick prayer before we were ushered to our places on the stone bench, just to the right of the main door, by the font, in the southern quadrant. Robin sat in the middle, between Tuck and myself, and two Templar sergeants sat flanking Tuck and me. The other men-at-arms who had escorted us inside disposed themselves around the church and leaned on their spears, occasionally glancing over at our little group with narrow gaolers’ eyes.
I gazed around at the church in awe, marvelling at the walls that glowed like precious jewels in the sunlight, decorated with vivid paintings of Jerusalem and King Solomon’s Temple, and rich hangings of gold and blue and scarlet thread that depicted scenes from the Bible, and wondrous carvings of human faces set in carved arches around the inner wall, just above the stone benches – some grotesque, some kindly, some fearsome, some saintly – all seemingly waiting to witness the proceedings that were about to take place.
This was the beating heart of the English Order of the Temple, a chamber of purity and goodness and Christian strength, and I did not feel worthy to be inside such a place. I closed my eyes once again in prayer, beseeching God to give me strength through the coming trial; and asking that he might see fit to protect my master from the righteous wrath of these holy knights.
A fanfare of trumpets interrupted my devotions, and when I opened my eyes heralds were striding through the doorway to my left, their trumpets adorned with the red and gold of the royal standard. We were ordered to our feet by a gesture from the Templar sergeant, and into the church strode Prince John himself, apparently deep in conversation with Sir William de Newham, the English Provincial Master of the Temple. Behind him came Sir Aymeric de St Maur, who was chatting to a companion; I realized with a heavy heart but no real sense of surprise that the Templar knight’s companion was Sir Ralph Murdac.
The Master, William de Newham, took his seat at the eastern end of the round church in an imposing high-backed chair. He was a portly, irritable-looking, red-faced man with large eyes shot with blood, now flanked on either side by his two wardens, senior knights who acted as his officials. Together with the Master, these were the men who would pass judgement this day on the Earl of Locksley. The great wooden door was slammed shut, with one man-at-arms posted outside to see that we were not disturbed, and another, an inner guard, posted inside, his sword drawn in readiness, to be doubly sure that the proceedings of the inquisition would not be interrupted. Prince John was ushered to a position of honour on the opposite side of the church from Robin, Tuck and me – the north side – and on taking his seat he immediately began making a fuss, demanding cushions to ease the hardness of the stone bench. Sir Ralph Murdac, after lending his voice to the demand for more cushions, shouting at several of the Templar sergeants and urging them to be quick about bringing his master’s comforts, finally settled himself and looked over to our side with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.
As always, when I looked on Ralph Murdac’s features, I felt a surge of hatred in my guts. But that day it was particularly strong, and I worried for an instant that I might disgrace myself by vomiting my bile on the smooth, grey flagstone floor. Somehow I mastered my stomach and forced myself to make a careful study of my enemy. Apart from that glimpse in the firelight outside Kirkton Castle, I had not had the misfortune to look upon his loathsome features for several years. He was clean shaven and bareheaded, his black hair cut into a neat bowl shape – clearly he had had a barber visit him that day. His clothes were of fine black silk, well cut, expensive and cared for; his face was handsome, though his lips were faintly too red for my taste, giving him an air of petulance and secret vice. His light blue eyes, cold as frost, glittered as he stared straight back at me. I was struck, once again, at how similar he was to little Hugh, in looks at least; I could only pray that Hugh would not turn out to share the same blackness of heart. He was too far away for me to catch his scent, but I wondered if he still favoured that revolting lavender perfume which had always made me sneeze.
Then I noticed something that made a spark of joy leap in my heart: Murdac was holding one shoulder awkwardly, slightly higher than the other. At first I thought it was just a peculiar way of sitting, but then he moved, turning sideways to whisper something to his master, Prince John, and I realized what it was. He was crippled, a hunchback. Robin’s arrow, fired into the darkness on that night of fire and blood outside Kirkton Castle, might not have killed the man, but it had certainly spoiled his posture.
I smiled broadly at Murdac now, meeting his gaze, looking pointedly at his high shoulder, grinning at him like a monkey. And I looked sideways at Robin, hoping he had noticed it too, but my master was staring serenely into the middle distance, humming softly to himself under his breath, as if he had not a care in the world. If things went badly for Robin, he was but a few short hours away from an agonizing, fiery end. But then I have never met a man who was calmer in the face of death.
It was Prince John who started the hearing, in his typically ungracious way. Giving a jerk of his dark-red curly head to the Master of the Temple, he waved one finger of his beringed right hand and croaked: ‘Well, shall we get on with it, then? I don’t wish to be here all day.’
The Master, who had been conferring earnestly with one of his wardens and a clerk brandishing a clutch of curling parchments, looked up, surprised to have his authority usurped in his own church.
To his credit, he resisted what had, in effect, been a royal command. ‘In a moment, Your Highness,’ he said, narrowing his eyes. ‘Try to possess yourself with a just little more patience.’ His tone had the slightest edge to it; a note of condescension, as if talking to an impetuous child.
As I watched Aymeric de St Maur rise from his seat in the southern part of the church, not far from us, and cross to the Master’s chair, a thought struck me. I turned to Robin and asked: ‘Where is the Queen? Where is the Lady Eleanor? Surely she should come to your aid?’
Robin turned to me and smiled – he looked as cool as a summer breeze. Almost without moving his lips, he said, very quietly: ‘The Queen cannot come to my aid, Alan. She must stay aloof from this contest. She needs the English Templars to help her free Richard, or rather she needs their silver and their ability to arrange credit. We are all on our own here, Alan. Just play your part, and all will be well in the end.’
I must have looked uncertain, for he gave me a conspiratorial wink and muttered: ‘Do not trouble yourself too much, Alan. Everything is going to be just fine. Tuck assures me that the Almighty has a master plan; God has it all worked out, apparently.’ And he grinned at me, quite blasphemously, before saying: ‘And have you noticed Murdac’s crooked back?’ I could only smile back at him, heartened by his less-than-Christian pleasure in an enemy’s discomfort.
The Master of the Templars now rose to his feet, gave a brief signal to one of the sergeants, and led the whole church in a prayer asking God that the truth be uncovered and justice be done this day in His sacred house, before His eyes. Then the sergeant led Robin to the centre of the church, placing him in such a way that he stood directly before the Master but everyone in the round church would have a clear view of him.
The Master then held up a thick, curling piece of parchment and read aloud in Latin. It was a letter from His Holiness the Pope, adorned with the Papal seal, sanctioning this inquisition in the Temple Church in London on this day and naming the individual to be investigated as Robert Odo, Earl of Locksley. It was a long, dull document, which referred to a Papal Bull known as Ad abolendam that had been issued by Pope Lucius nearly ten years ago, urging the high churchmen of Christendom to actively seek out all heretics and those who sheltered or supported them, and bring them swiftly to justice.
His authority as an episcopal inquisitor thus established, the Master took his seat and the inquisition began.
‘Do you Robert Odo, Earl of Locksley, believe in God the Father Almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth, and in his only son Jesus Christ our Saviour?’ asked the Master in French, fixing Robin with his bloodshot eyes.
‘I do,’ said Robin gravely, in the same language. I knew that he was lying through his sinful teeth – but there was no other answer that he could make.
‘And do you believe that the word of God was made flesh as Jesus Christ and that by his suffering and death on the Cross this sinful world was redeemed?’
‘No question about it,’ said Robin, his face a picture of Christian innocence.
‘And do you believe that on the third day after He was crucified He rose again from the dead and ascended into Heaven, and now sits at the right hand of God the Father?’
‘Absolutely … third day, right hand, all of that stuff,’ said Robin, his eyes seeming to shine with conviction.
‘And do you believe in the Holy Trinity of God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Ghost? And that Mary was a virgin before and after the birth of her son Jesus Christ?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, do get on with it!’ Prince John’s harsh voice cut through the recitation of a well-known and much-loved formula. Though the Master ignored his interruption, his high colour became a little more pronounced.
‘I certainly do,’ said Robin jauntily. ‘I’m entirely sure Mary was a virgin, before and afterwards – oh, very much so.’
‘And do you swear by Almighty God, by Jesus Christ, by the Virgin Mary and all the saints, at the peril of your immortal soul if you prove false, that you will only speak the truth this day?’
‘Yes, indeed. I swear it; I swear it on my immortal soul,’ said Robin confidently, but somehow still managing to sound impossibly sincere.
The Master seemed a little flustered by Robin’s breezy tone. He looked back down at a roll of parchment in his hand: ‘You stand accused of the grave crimes of heresy, of necromancy, of demon-worship, of blasphemy, of taking the Lord’s name in vain …’
Robin interrupted him, talking over the Master’s words: ‘… of picking my nose on a Sunday, of whistling in church, of stealing sweetmeats from children, of refusing to share my toys … My lords, these charges are completely absurd. They’ve been invented by enemies who seek …’
There had been several shocked chuckles from the secular knights seated around the church at Robin’s lampooning of the Master’s list of grave charges, but most people were too surprised by the turn of events to react.
The Master was not one of them. ‘Silence!’ he roared, furious that anyone should have the temerity to interrupt him. His cheeks were glowing a dangerous dark red. ‘You are insolent, sir. You will not speak unless you are asked a direct question; if you interrupt me again I will have you gagged.’
Robin said nothing; he let out a long breath and stared into space above the Master’s head, smiling faintly. His expression was once more beatifically serene. Just then, as the church fell silent after the Master’s threat, Tuck let out an almighty fart, a resounding trumpet that seemed to last for several heartbeats and echo around the whole building.
‘Silence!’ screamed the Master. I noticed that his face was growing a deep purple and a vein seemed to be jumping in his forehead. ‘Who did that? I demand to know who made that disgusting noise.’
‘Forgive me, Master,’ said Tuck. ‘I had a little too much ale with my supper last night.’ And once again, he let blow an enormous, foul-smelling eructation. ‘I humbly beg your pardon.’
At least half the people in the church were laughing now. And the Master’s face had turned an even nastier shade of puce. ‘If I hear one more inappropriate … sound … of any kind … from anyone, I shall have that person removed from this court, bound, shackled and thrown in the crypt.’
It was obvious that the Master meant what he said: his face was still beetroot but, after a while, he had calmed himself enough to resume reading the charges from the parchment. It was a long list, but mostly seemed to consist of variations on the same theme – that Robin was a heretic, a godless Christ-denier, a worshipper of demons who conjured up foul spirits from the furthermost pit. When the Master had finished reading, he fixed Robin sternly with his gaze and said formally: ‘Earl of Locksley, you now stand accused. What answer do you make to these charges?’
‘They are all lies,’ said Robin simply, in a level, reasonable voice that carried to every part of the church. ‘They are lies invented by enemies who wish to see me destroyed. I deny all of these charges. Every single one.’
The Master stared at him for a few moments, as if expecting him to say more. Then he nodded once and said: ‘Then we shall hear the evidence against you.’
Escorted to his seat by the Templar sergeant, my Lord of Locksley took his place next to me, stretched out his long legs and sat back, evidently completely at his ease.
Ralph Murdac was next to take the position at the centre of the church. He walked forward with as much dignity as he could, his left shoulder wedged up high by his ear, and stood in front of the Master and his two wardens and made a sacred vow that he would tell only the truth this day before this court.
‘That man,’ said Murdac, flinging out an accusing finger in Robin’s direction, ‘Robert Odo, the so-called Earl of Locksley, is so steeped in heresy and sin and blasphemy of the vilest kind that he besmirches this very church with his presence.’
I had half-forgotten his slithery, lisping tones, but it brought the hairs up on the back of my neck as I heard him speak about my lord in these terms.
‘Well spoken, that man; quite true, quite true,’ croaked Prince John loudly from his cushioned nest.
The Master fixed him with his blood-streaked eyes. ‘My lord Prince, may I beseech you, keep your counsel until we have heard the evidence.’
There was no mention of binding, shackling and imprisonment in the crypt, but the Master was still clearly determined not to cede authority in his own court. Prince John merely grunted and waved a languid hand indicating that Sir Ralph Murdac should continue.
Murdac half-bowed and picked up his thread: ‘When he was an outlaw, shunned by all decent law-abiding men and living wild in the woods like an animal, Robert Odo was known to practise the most disgusting diabolic acts in pursuit of a false religion, even going so far as to sacrifice live human beings to a bloodthirsty woodland demon. Since he has been foolishly allowed back into Christian society, his lands are renowned as a nest of witches and warlocks, of succubi, incubi and foul half-human creatures from the depths of Hell – ask any good man from the area of Kirkton, or Locksley or Sheffield itself and they will confirm that the Devil and his minions are abroad on many a dark night, in the shape of wild men with the heads of horses that breathe fire and can turn a man to stone with one look. A local witch, the Hag of Hallamshire – a hideously deformed crone who steals Christian babies to sacrifice for her dark arts – has been spotted many times in the area …’
‘Yes, yes,’ said the Master testily, ‘there are rumours of witchcraft all over England. But this man is charged with heresy. Do you have any specific evidence of heresy?’
‘I have seen these horse-demons, doubtless summoned by Locksley’s incantations, with my very own eyes,’ said Murdac proudly. ‘I saw these foul creatures ride into battle in the company of the prisoner here before us.’ Once again, Murdac threw out a finger at my master.
‘Go on,’ said the Master. There had been a ripple of interest in the church at Murdac’s accusatory words. The Bishop of London, who happened to be directly in my line of sight, was frowning and looking seriously concerned.
‘Last September, on the eve of the holy day of saints Cornelius and Cyprian, I was camped peaceably outside Kirkton Castle engaged in parley with the whorish Countess of Locksley for the return of my son from her custody’ – I stole a sideways glance at Robin but his serene expression had hardly changed, although a little smile was playing around his mouth and, oddly, that chilled me more than any amount of ranting threats – ‘when I was set upon by an army of fiends from Hell. First they caused barrow-loads of fire to fall from the Heavens, scorching my men to the bone, and then the Devil’s cavalry, led by the heresiarch, the malevolent Robert of Locksley, appeared as if by magic. These steeds of Satan – giant men with the heads of stallions on fire-breathing mounts – came to ravage my camp and slaughter my men. It was only through Christ’s mercy, and doubtless the intercession of saints Cornelius and Cyprian, that any of us escaped with our lives.’
‘And you swear before God that you saw all this with your own eyes?’ said the Master.
‘On my honour,’ said Murdac. ‘And before Almighty God, I so swear.’
I heard Tuck give a loud disbelieving snort under his breath. Murdac stalked back to his place, evidently pleased by his performance.
‘Well spoken, that man; well spoken,’ came a royal croak from the northern quadrant of the church.
The Master whispered to one of his wardens, who made a note on a piece of parchment.
‘Bring forth the accused,’ the Master intoned. And when Robin had, once again, been brought into the centre of the circle he said: ‘What have you to say about this matter of the horse demons?’
Robin took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders slowly. ‘It is true …’ he said, and paused, and there was a collective intake of breath around the church. ‘It is true that Ralph Murdac was before my castle of Kirkton with many hundreds of armed men. Contrary to the laws of the Church and the edict of His Holiness the Pope, he was attacking my property as I was returning from the Holy Land after fighting in the name of Christendom to recover the land of Our Lord’s birth.’
There was a murmur of approval around the church. Many of the men present had fought ferociously in the Holy Land, many had lost dear comrades there; in fact, one of the principal aims of the Templar knights was the defence of Outremer. And the Church did promise protection to knights and their property while they were away on pilgrimage. Robin had scored a point, and everyone in the church knew it. I saw the Bishop of London begin to relax a little; he smiled over at us, nodding his silver head.
‘When I returned from the Holy Land where Our Saviour Jesus Christ taught, much wearied by hard battle against the Saracens,’ continued Robin, shoving home his point ruthlessly, ‘I found Ralph Murdac besieging my castle. So many of my good men had fallen in the East in defence of Christ’s teachings that I found myself left with a mere fifty Christian souls capable of giving battle to my enemies. Unless I wished to surrender my family and my lands to a cur who holds the Church’s laws in contempt, I was therefore forced to resort to subterfuge, to use a low trick.
‘This man’s wild talk of fire-breathing horse-headed men is all nonsense, the babbling of a coward,’ said Robin, indicating Murdac with a flick of his left hand, but not deigning to look at him. ‘True, I rolled fire-carts into his camp; and true, my men wore sheepskin masks, painted to look like horses’ heads, to frighten his craven men-at-arms, but there was no heresy involved, and it is ridiculous to imagine that demons were summoned. We prayed to Almighty God and his only son Jesus Christ to deliver us from our enemies and by His good grace – and the strength and prowess of my men – the enemy were defeated.’
Here Robin stopped, and the Master stared at him for a few heartbeats, waiting to hear more. ‘Can you prove any of what you say?’ the Templar leader said finally.
Robin beckoned to me. ‘I call upon my loyal vassal Alan of Westbury to bear witness to the truth of what I say. Alan took part in that action, and he is a good Christian soul who would never allow himself to become involved in anything that went against the teachings of the Church. Stand up, Alan. Come forward and speak.’
I walked as calmly as I could into the centre of the church; my legs felt soft and my belly fluttery, and I was conscious of the gaze of more than thirty pairs of noble eyes. But keeping my chin up, I stared straight at the Master, and said: ‘What the Earl of Locksley says is Gospel true. There were no horse-demons summoned; it was merely a ruse de guerre, a trick to make the enemy fearful of us.’
There was a rustling sound from around the church and mutterings of approval. I could feel the opinion of those gathered there turning in our favour like a great tide. The men gathered here were warriors, first and foremost, and many of them had used a cunning ruse or two to achieve victory.
‘Very well, you may both return to your seats,’ said the Master.
As we walked back to our places in the south-western quarter of the church, Tuck was beaming at us. When we took our seats, he began to utter words of congratulation, but Robin cut him off. ‘It’s not over yet, Tuck,’ my master whispered, ‘not by a long march. That was merely the first clash of swords.’
‘I call upon Sir Aymeric de St Maur to produce further evidence,’ boomed the Master, and looking to my right, I saw that, as usual, Robin was correct.
The Templar knight was standing over a wretched creature: a man, half-naked and lying on his side, his arms bound behind his back, who had been beaten and misused in the most appalling fashion. Patches of his flesh were burnt, red raw and oozing from the hot irons – and I remembered with a shudder my own torture at the hands of Sir Ralph Murdac. But there was something else about him that troubled me even more: tattooed on the poor man’s chest, easily visible thanks to his bound arms, was a symbol in the shape of the letter Y. I knew that sign, and I knew what it meant.
My mind leapt back to an awful night in Sherwood Forest nearly four years ago and a wretch no less terrified than this man now before me – a man who was tied to an ancient stone and butchered in a demonic ceremony as a sacrifice to a pagan god – a ceremony of worship to Cernunnos, a woodland deity, a figure that the Church regarded as a foul demon. Robin had played a leading part in the ceremony, and worshipping the demon Cernunnos must certainly be viewed as heresy of the vilest kind.
Sir Aymeric de St Maur dragged the wretch to the centre of the church by his hair. And the man lay there weeping, either with pain or fear, cowering on the floor before the Master. Every man in the room seemed to crane forward to get a better look at him.
‘This villein is known as John,’ began Aymeric, speaking, as we all had until this point, in French. ‘He once belonged to the manor of Alfreton, but he killed a man and ran away from justice five years ago and took to living wild in Sherwood Forest. He became a beggar and a footpad – and a demon-worshipper, as is indicated by this mark on his chest.’
Aymeric pointed to the Y-shaped tattoo. Beside me, Robin sat up a little straighter and cocked his head to one side, observing the unfortunate villein with a speculative but still astoundingly untroubled eye.
‘We had to use a good deal of persuasion on him,’ said Aymeric, giving the prisoner a savage kick that caused the man to writhe on the floor, smearing the stone flags with his blood and burn fluids, ‘but finally he confessed to his foul deeds. And he told us a very interesting story concerning the Earl of Locksley.’
There was absolute silence in the church, not a cough, not a shuffled foot.
Sir Aymeric continued, his voice echoing in the stillness: ‘This man claims he participated in a diabolical ceremony at Easter four years ago in which a prisoner of war, a man-at-arms known as Piers in the service of Sir Ralph Murdac, then the High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, was sacrificed to a demon called Cernunnos by a notorious local witch. During the ceremony, Robert Odo, who went by the name of Robin Hood in those days, fully took part in the bloody, heretical ritual. Indeed, he claimed that he had been possessed by the demon Cernunnos himself.’
There were gasps all around the church and every eye now fixed itself on Robin and our little group. I saw that the Bishop of London was shaking his silver head and chewing on one fingernail. He looked as if he were ready to burst into tears.
‘Is this true?’ asked the Master, addressing the wretch on the floor in English. ‘You, villein, is what Sir Aymeric says true? Did you participate in a blood-thirsty heretical ceremony worshipping a false god, in which the Earl of Locksley also played a central part?’
The tattooed man gave a little moan of fear, and stammered: ‘Oh yes, sir, please don’t hurt me. It is true, every word of it. I swear before Almighty God, and Jesus, Joseph and Mary, and all the saints, please …’
‘That’s enough!’ Aymeric reached down and cuffed the man violently around the head, and the poor wretch slumped to the floor and resumed his silent weeping.
‘Take him away,’ ordered the Master, switching back into French; and the poor man was dragged off and bundled down the steps to the crypt by two burly Templar sergeants.
‘What response do you make to this accusation?’ the Master asked Robin.
My lord rose to his feet. ‘That man has clearly been tortured out of his wits and would say anything to ease his pains. By Church decree, by the decree of the Holy Father himself, his testimony has no validity in an inquisition,’ he said briskly. ‘By Church law, a tortured man’s testimony is not acceptable. Am I not correct, Master?’
The Master conferred with his two wardens. There was much rustling of parchments and consulting of scrolls and then one of the wardens whispered at length in the Master’s ear. Finally, after a lot of shrugging and frowning, the Master pronounced in a heavy, sullen tone: ‘It seems that we must disregard the evidence of this villein. It appears that he may have been tortured and his evidence is therefore not valid. But I believe that we will hear more on this matter in due course. Sir Aymeric, proceed!’
Robin shrugged. He turned on his heel and walked over to Tuck and myself and sat down again, crossed his legs and began looking at his fingernails. He still seemed absurdly unruffled by the proceedings.
I marvelled at his composure and was trying my best to emulate it when I heard the Master saying: ‘Call the next witness.’
Over the half-hour that followed, a succession of poor men and women were brought out into the centre of the church by Sir Aymeric de St Maur. Each vowed to tell only the truth, then each was asked two simple questions in English: ‘Have you ever seen Robert of Locksley by word or deed engage in heretical activities that run counter to the teachings of Holy Mother Church? And have you ever seen Robert of Locksley participate in a ritual that might be considered demon-worship?’
Each time the witness came to the centre of the church and mumbled his or her way through a story – some of which were sheer moon-addled fantasy, tales of the Earl of Locksley spitting and stamping and pissing on crucifixes in secret ceremonies at the dead of night, or copulating wildly with a black goat while flying through the air; some were no more than innocuous tales of Robin taking the Lord’s name in vain after stubbing his toe on a rock. All, as far as I could tell, were false. It soon became evident that all the witnesses had been well paid. One man even thanked Sir Aymeric in front of the court for the silver he’d been given.
Throughout all this – the lies and fantasies and lunatic accusations – Robin remained composed. Occasionally he would lean forward in his seat to hear a particular man or woman’s testimony, but he did so in the manner of a benevolent old priest listening to the outlandish confession of one of his parishioners. Occasionally he yawned and stretched as if overcome with ennui.
And Robin was not the only one in that church who appeared to be mildly bored by this pantomime. I caught some of the knights in the round chamber yawning, too, and muttering to their neighbours. They did not seem to be overly impressed with the evidence that the Templars had manufactured against my master. In fact the more outlandish and ridiculous the stories, the less credibility they had to their audience. Sir Aymeric de St Maur, I realized with joy, had been too zealous in pursuit of his cause. We were winning; we had the tacit support of the secular knights, at least, and many Templars would believe his record of service in the Holy Land should count for much. The Bishop of London was smiling warmly at us from across the church.
Then the Master spoke: ‘We have heard much evidence today concerning whether or not Robert of Locksley is a heretic and a demon-worshipper. We must disregard the testimony of the villein John, as this inquisition suspects that he may have been tortured. But I believe we have heard enough. We will hear only one more witness on this matter today and then we will make our judgement.’ He paused and looked briefly at a sheet of parchment in his hand. ‘Sir Aymeric, call your final witness,’ the Master said.
Aymeric de St Maur walked to the centre of the church. In a loud and ringing voice he said: ‘I call upon Alan of Westbury to come forward.’
And my heart froze.
I have no memory of walking the ten paces to the centre of the church, to the place beside Sir Aymeric. But I can recall clearly the intensity of the Master’s bloodshot glare and his next words: ‘Do you swear, by Almighty God, by the Virgin and all the saints, that you will tell the truth this day, in the knowledge that if you utter falsehoods the Lord God himself will strike you dead for your blasphemy and your soul will burn in Hell?’
My mouth was dry, my tongue suddenly seemed to be twice its normal size. I mumbled something and, at the Master’s irritated urging to speak up, I found myself making a solemn oath that I would tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. My back was towards Robin, and I was glad of it. I could not look him in the eye.
Sir Aymeric stood not two paces from me, to my front left: he waited till he had my attention and then asked me the fateful question. ‘Did you witness your master Robin Hood, now styled the Earl of Locksley, taking part in a demonic ceremony at Eastertide four years ago in which a living man-at-arms known as Piers, a prisoner of war, was sacrificed to a false god? Answer merely yes or no. And remember that you are on oath to tell the truth in this holy church, before the all-seeing eyes of God Almighty.’
I could not speak. My mouth seemed to be glued shut; my jaw muscles were locked.
The Master snapped: ‘Answer the question, man!’
And I found myself muttering: ‘Yes.’
‘Speak up,’ said the Master. ‘Speak up Alan of Westbury so that all may hear you.’
Sir Aymeric de St Maur stared intently at me; he was smirking like a fox who’s found a way into a chicken coop.
‘Yes,’ I said again. ‘Yes, I did witness my master taking part in a bloody ritual, a ceremony in which a living man was sacrificed to a demon, at Easter, in Sherwood, four years ago.’
Chaos erupted in the church; a great chorus of shouting voices, bellowing men. I wanted to turn and look over at Robin but I found I could not move my shoulders and neck.
I heard Prince John loudly croaking: ‘Guilty! Guilty, by God. Condemned out of the mouth of his own vassal. I say he is guilty. Burn the scoundrel! Burn him now!’
Then the Master was shouting for silence, while I merely stood there paralysed by what I had just done.
Quiet was finally achieved, and I dimly heard the Master saying: ‘I think we have heard enough … what say you, wardens?’
I stood there before the Master of the Temple, my hands hanging loose by my side, while he conferred with his two wardens and, still staring at the floor, my mind fogged by grief, I heard him say: ‘This inquisition finds Robert Odo, Earl of Locksley, guilty on all charges. He shall be taken from this place and imprisoned in the Temple crypt and in three days’ time, at dawn, he shall suffer the purifying fire that will cleanse him of his foul iniquities. May God have mercy on his soul.’
I finally managed to turn my head and look over at Robin. My master was standing now, with four Templar sergeants hovering close around him while another was binding his arms in front of his body. His silver eyes bored into mine with such a look of ferocity that I was almost blown backwards as if by a powerful gust of wind. He stared at me for a long, long moment, and then he uttered one word – a terrible word, said loudly and clearly so that everyone in the church might hear it; a word full of contempt and hatred. Then the sergeants dragged him away towards the crypt. The word was ringing in my ears. And I can hear that word still, more than forty years later. The word was …
‘Judas!’