It was early spring, in the year of Our Lord 1190, and, it seemed to me on that beautiful day, all was right in the world: noble King Richard, that most Christian warrior, was on the throne of England, the officials he had placed in positions of power were said to be governing wisely, and he himself would soon be setting off on a great and holy adventure to recover Jerusalem, the navel of the world, from the grip of the Saracen hordes, perhaps bringing about the Second Coming of Our Lord Jesus Christ by his actions. All England prayed that he might be successful. Best of all, I had successfully completed one of my first assignments for my master, Robert Odo, the newly created Earl of Locksley, and lord of Kirkton, Sheffield, Ecclesfield, Hallam, Grimesthorpe and Greasbrough, and dozens of smaller manors across Yorkshire, Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire.
I was Robin’s
trouvère,
or personal musician to his court.
Trouvères
were so called because we ‘found’ or composed songs ourselves, not merely repeating other men’s verses like a lowly jongleur. But, for Robin, I also acted as his messenger, envoy and, occasionally, spy. And I was glad to do it. I owed everything I had to him. I was a gutter-born peasant with no family, or even a village or town to call my own, and very young then, only fifteen years old - and Robin had granted me the lordship of the small manor of Westbury. I was Alan of Westbury! I was the lord of a manor; this same manor, where, more than forty years later, I now write these words. After the savage battle at Linden Lea the previous year, in which we had defeated the forces of Sir Ralph Murdac, the corrupt High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, Robin, a notorious fugitive from the law, had been pardoned by King Richard, married his lovely Marie-Anne and been made Earl of Locksley. All those who had followed him during the dark years of his outlawry had received a reward for their loyalty - a handful of silver, a sturdy ox, or a fine horse - and, in truth, I had expected a gift of some sort too, but I had not expected to be granted a sizeable piece of land.
I was almost speechless with gratitude when Robin showed me the charter, adorned with the great, heavy red disk of his seal, that made me the custodian of this big old hall and its many outbuildings, five hundred acres of prime farmland, a village of twenty four cottages occupied by a hundred souls, mostly villeins but with a handful of free men, a water mill, a warren, two pair of oxen, a plough and a fine stone church.
‘It’s a small manor, Alan, not much more than a big farmstead, really; only half a knight’s fee. And it’s a bit run down, I’m afraid, but it is good land, I’m told,’ Robin said.
‘But how will I manage the place?’ I asked. ‘I know nothing of making a living from tilling the earth.’
‘I don’t expect you to be a farm worker, Alan,’ said Robin, laughing. ‘You must find a good man, a steward or bailiff, to do that for you. All you do is receive the rents, and make sure that nobody cheats you. I require you to serve me. But you need an income and some standing in society if you are to represent me, deliver my messages and what-have-you.’ He smiled, his strange silver eyes flashing at me: ‘And I am convinced that England has a great and pressing need for more songs about the bold exploits of handsome Robin Hood and his merry men.’
He was teasing me, of course. I had composed a few ditties about our days together beyond the law and they had spread like wildfire across the country, being sung in ale-houses from Cockermouth to Canterbury - growing farther from the truth with each drunken rendition. Robin did not mind that he was being turned into a legend, he said it amused him - in fact, I believe he relished it. And he was not in the slightest worried about his past crimes being brought to light. He was a great magnate now, untouchable by any mere Sheriff and, to boot, he enjoyed the favour and friendship of King Richard. He had won all this in two days of terrible slaughter last year, but there had been a price - above that paid for in the blood of his loyal men. In order to win that battle, Robin had made an unbreakable pact with the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon, the famous Templar Knights: in exchange for their support at a crucial moment in the battle, Robin had sworn that he would lead a force of mercenaries, archers and cavalry, to the Holy Land, as part of King Richard’s pilgrim army. As Robin’s
trouvère,
I would be accompanying the Christian force, and I could not wait to set off on what then seemed to me to be the most noble adventure that it was possible to conceive.
I had a message to Robin from King Richard in my saddlebag and I believed that it contained the date for our departure - it was only by using a great deal of force upon my self that I had refrained from tearing open the sealed parchment and reading this private missive between the King and my lord. But refrain, I did. I wanted more than anything to be his faithful, reliable vassal, utterly trustworthy, utterly loyal: for Robin had done so much more for me than grant me land. In a sense, he had made me what I was. When we first met I had been just a grubby young thief from Nottingham, and he had saved me from mutilation and possibly death at the hands of the law. Then, believing that I had some talent, he had arranged for me to be educated in music, in the Norman-French language, in Latin - the tongue of monks and scholars - and in the art of combat, and I was now as accomplished with a sword and dagger as I was with the vielle, the five-stringed polished apple-wood instrument with which I accompanied my singing.
And so I had spent many hard days and nights in the saddle wearing down the muddy roads of England in the service of my master - and now, labouring up that endless emerald slope, it felt as if I were coming home.
I glanced over to my left, as Ghost put one weary hoof in front of another up that steep hill, to check the height of the sun - it was mid-afternoon — and noticed to my complete surprise a mass of horsemen not two hundred yards away. At a rough count they numbered about a hundred men, ordered in two lines, helmeted, green-cloaked and clad in mail, all armed with twelve-foot spears, held vertically, and tipped with steel that glinted evilly in the sunlight. My first reaction was fear: they were approaching at a trot and on my exhausted mount there was no way I could outrun them. I must have been daydreaming to let them come up on me without my seeing them. As they approached, the leader, a bareheaded man who was a horse’s length ahead of the front line, ripped a long sword from his scabbard and, shouting something over his shoulder, he pointed it straight at me in an obvious order to attack. All along the first line of cavalry, the spears were levelled, the ash-wood shafts coming down from their upright position in a white wave of wood and sparkling metal, the butts couched beneath the riders’ armpits, the spearheads pointed at directly me. And then they charged.
From the trot, they moved swiftly to the canter and then, a moment later, they were at full gallop. Behind them the second line followed suit. The thunder of hooves seemed to vibrate the very turf. I could not run; there was no time, and Ghost would not bear me more than a quarter a mile at a gallop, so I tugged my plain old sword from its battered scabbard, and with a loud cry of ‘Westbury!’ I turned my mount towards them and charged straight at the fast approaching line of pounding warhorses and implacable mail-clad men.
In no more than three heartbeats they were upon me. The bareheaded leader, a tall youngish man with light brown hair and a mocking grin on his handsome face, raced towards me, sword held high and to his right. As our horses met he cut hard at my head with his long blade. If it had connected with my skull it would have killed me on the spot but I blocked the blow easily with my own sword, and the clash of metal rang out like a church bell. Then, as he swept past me, I twisted my wrist and swung my sword at his mailed back with all my strength. But the leading rider had anticipated this and spurred to his left, away from me, causing my blade to slice through empty air.
Then the second line of horsemen was upon me. I snarled at an onrushing rider, gripping Ghost tight with my knees, and smashed my sword into his kite-shaped shield, kicking out a long splinter of wood; I caught a glimpse of red hair under a badly fitting helmet, a gap-toothed open mouth and a terrified expression on his face as he thundered past me - and then I was through the lines, untouched, and there was empty green grass ahead of me and the diminishing sound of hoof beats behind.
I pulled up Ghost, and wheeled him round to face my opponents. They were half a hundred yards away, still going at the gallop, the two lines of horses merging into one long pack, bulging in the centre around the bareheaded leader. Then a trumpet rang out: two notes, bright and clear, a beautiful sound on that perfect sunny afternoon. The riders reined in, sawing at their bits, the horses’ forelegs clawing the air and, turning their sweat-streaked mounts, swiftly re-formed the two ranks. It was impressive - or it would have been if all the horses and riders had responded to the trumpet. A handful of men, perhaps a dozen, had lost control of their animals and they were still thundering away from the main body in the opposite direction, heading over the shoulder of a hill and disappearing south down the slope towards the River Locksley. It looked as if nothing would stop them before they were in Nottinghamshire. But there were still eighty or so riders in control of their mounts, reformed, in line, spears levelled once again. The bareheaded leader’s sword came down and, once more, they thundered towards me. I remained still, this time, silently applauding this display of horsemanship, sword resting casually on one shoulder, as the ranks of the enemy cavalry hurled themselves at me. At a distance of fifty paces, the trumpet rang out again one long note, repeated three times, and, miraculously, the reins were hauled back once again, the lances rose to pierce the sky, and with much snorting from the protesting horses, tearing of the turf, and swearing from the riders, the whole huge mass of sweaty horse and armoured man-flesh came sliding to a halt about a spear’s length from Ghost’s soft nose. I stared at the heaving ranks of cavalry, saluted them with my sword, and slid the blade back into its battered scabbard.
‘Did we give you a good scare then, Alan?’ said the bareheaded rider, only slightly out of breath, and grinning at me like a drunken apprentice celebrating a holy day.
‘Of course, my lord,’ I said gravely. ‘I was so terrified by your fearsome manoeuvres that I believe I may have soiled myself.’ There were a few guffaws from the ranks, which I had intended. Then I grinned back at Robin and said with mock humility: ‘It was, truly, a very impressive display. But one suggestion, sir,’ I paused. ‘I’m no expert on horsemanship, of course, but would it not be even more effective if
all
the horses charged together ... in the same direction ... at the same time?’
There was more merriment from the horse soldiers as I pointed behind Robin to the other side of the dale, where a dozen of the Earl of Locksley’s newly formed cavalry could be seen tiredly forging up the far slope, the horses lathered in white and still wildly out of control. Robin turned, looked and smiled ruefully.
‘We’re working on it, Alan,’ said Robin. ‘We’re working hard on it. And they’ve still got a little time to learn before we get them to Outremer.’
‘They are a damned indisciplined rabble, that’s what they are. You ought to have the hides off the lot of them!’ snapped a man seated on a magnificent bay stallion next to Robin. I looked at him curiously. The ranks of heavily blowing cavalry were filled with familiar faces and I had nodded cheery greetings to half a dozen former outlaws by now, but he was a stranger to me. A tall man of late-middle years, clearly a knight from his dress, weaponry and the quality of his horse, with sandy blonde hair and a battered, much-creased face, the result, I assumed, of a permanent frown.
Robin said: ‘May I introduce Sir James de Brus, my new captain of horse, the man responsible for knocking these rascals into shape. Sir James, this is Alan Dale, an old comrade, a good friend and my very talented
trouvère.’
‘Pleased to know you,’ said Sir James. I noticed that he had a slight Scottish accent. ‘Dale, Dale ...’ he said in a puzzled tone. ‘I don’t think I know the name. Where are your family’s lands?’
I bridled instinctively. I was ashamed of my humble origins and I hated to be asked about my family, particularly by members of the knightly class, who loved to talk about their Norman lineage as a way of demonstrating their superiority. I glared at the man and said nothing.
Robin spoke for me: ‘Alan’s father came here from France,’ he said smoothly. ‘And he was the son of the Seigneur D’Alle, of whom I am sure you will have heard. Alan is the lord of Westbury in Nottinghamshire.’
What Robin said about my father was true. He had been the second son of an obscure French knight, but Robin had not mentioned that he had been a penniless wandering musician, a
trouvère
like me, but without a master. He had made his living, for a time, singing in the halls of the nobility, where he had met Robin, before falling in love with my mother and settling down to raise crops and three children in a small village outside Nottingham. When I was nine, soldiers had burst into our cottage before dawn, ripped my father from his bed and, after falsely accusing him of theft, had hanged him summarily on an oak tree in the centre of the village. I have never forgotten the sight of his swollen face as he choked out his life on that makeshift gibbet. And I have never forgiven Sir Ralph Murdac, the Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, who ordered his execution.
Sir James grunted something to me that might have been: ‘At your service, sir,’ and I inclined my head at him with the barest civility. Robin said: ‘Well, that’s enough fun for today; shall we adjourn to the castle? I think it is time for a bite of supper.’
‘I have urgent private news for you, sir,’ I said to Robin.
‘Can it wait till after supper?’ he asked. I thought for a moment and then nodded reluctantly. ‘Come to my chamber after the meal, we’ll talk then.’ He smiled at me. ‘Good to have you back, Alan,’ he said, ‘Kirkton has been dull without your wit and dour without your music.’ And then: ‘When you are fully rested, perhaps you’ll sing for us. Tomorrow?’