I walked into the monk’s cell and saw Nur sitting on the padded stone shelf that served as my bed, wrapped in my warm green cloak. Her eyes were red and the black kohl that she used around them was streaked down her cheeks. She looked like a little lost girl and my heart melted inside my body. When she saw me she burst into a fit on uncontrollable sobbing and in two steps she was in my arms. ‘You ... have ... no ... love ... for ... me ...’ she said between gasping sobs. She said it like a phrase that she had leamt by heart, parrot-fashion. And I believed I knew who had taught it to her: a certain meddling Jew, who was also a wonderful, miraculous, life-giving friend. I held Nur tenderly and stroked her silky black hair, smoothing it over her head and down her long back. My hands discovered that she was naked under the cloak, and I just had time to gruffly dismiss William, who was gawping at us from the doorway, and watch him leave and gently shut the door, before I surrendered to the searing passion that had been raging inside me for so many weeks and crushed her soft mouth against mine.
What can an old man write about lovemaking? Each new generation believes that it has discovered it for the first time and that its elders are utterly grotesque in their coupling. But even though I am old now, I was not then, and I remember the first time that I made love with Nur as perhaps the most beautiful, moving, deeply wonderful night of my life.
After the initial kiss, which was like a long draught of sweet wine, we tore at each other like wild beasts in our passion. She ripped my clothes from me and I mounted her without hesitation and felt the exquisite plunge as I slid deep inside her, the heat roaring in my loins, her legs wrapping around my waist, her soft breasts crushed against my chest. I was swiftly swept away in a whirlwind of pleasure; I bucked and plowed and kissed her, teeth clashing, whenever I could find her mouth, the unbearable pressure building beneath my balls as I teetered on the brink of explosion, each stroke more exquisite than the last, until at last I erupted in a series of gasping shudders deep inside her.
That night lasted for the blink of an eye, and will stay for ever in my memory. Time had no meaning when I was with her, inside her, beside her and, in the breaks between each bout of lovemaking, we kissed long and deep, as if we were sucking life itself from each other’s sweet lips. After we had made love twice, Nur began to show me a little of the arts she had leamt in the big house in Messina. With her tongue and fingers, kissing and licking and stroking in every secret place, she brought me to the point of ecstasy, and then let me subside before it was too late. Again and again, I was made breathless by her wanton, silky camality, her suppleness, and her willingness to bring me pleasure by every means possible, including some delightful practices of which I had never even dreamed, and which I was fairly sure would have been thoroughly condemned by any priest or monk. Near dawn, we lay in each other’s arms, spent, and I stared in wonder into her fathomless dark eyes, her slim, infinitely precious body in the circle of my arms. We did not speak, for my Arabic had not progressed much beyond the formal greetings, and Nur had only that phrase of French that Reuben had taught her, but in that moment we needed no words. We lay together in a bubble of love, wrapped safe in each other’s tender gaze.
I believe I reached a pitch of happiness in those early morning hours, after our first night together, with the monastery silent around us and that dark head sleeping on my shoulder, the like of which I have never reached again. My body felt empty and yet so full of joy; light of soul and yet weary beyond belief.
After that wondrous, magical night she came to me again the next evening, and the next. William was banished to the monastery dormitory, which he told me was occupied by a lot of snoring, farting men-at-arms, but the boy bore his exile with fortitude and I caught him smiling at me on several occasions, happy for my happiness.
Sir James de Brus made no comment about my new situation, but I knew that he knew, and he seemed to show me a greater respect as I honed my technique at the quintain and on the practice field. One day, as we were just finishing our routines, I noticed that Sir Robert of Thumham had been watching, with an entourage of knights. We rode over to him, and he greeted us both with a cheery salute.
‘Your skills are coming along very nicely, Alan,’ said Sir Robert in a friendly tone. ‘You are almost as good with a lance as a well-seasoned knight.’
‘Thank you, Sir Robert,’ I said, bowing from the waist. ‘But I think the skill resides mainly in my horse, Ghost.’
Sir Robert laughed. ‘Nonsense; I’ve had my eye on you for some time now and I see the makings of a first-class chevalier. If you can impress the King on the field of battle in the Holy Land, who knows - maybe, God willing, he will one day grant you the honour of knighthood, of serving him as one of his household knights; the elite of the army. Your father was from a noble family, I believe, and you hold some land of the Earl of Locksley?’
I nodded, surprised that he knew all this, and very pleased. It had never crossed my mind that I would ever make it into the ranks of the knighthood, to be Sir Alan of Westbury. In my own head, I was still a ragged cutpurse from the stews of Nottingham, an orphaned thief and outlaw. It was a wonderful thought and I beamed happily at Sir Robert.
‘The King is already impressed with your courtly talents,’ he went on. ‘He likes you; he much admired your rendering of Tristan and Isolde, a month or so ago. In fact, I come directly from him, bearing an invitation to dine with him on Christmas Eve. The King wishes you to sing for his party. How about that?’
It was a great honour, but as often happens to me in the presence of great men, I was unable to think of a suitable reply. So I muttered something about how grateful I was and bowed once again.
‘The day after tomorrow at noon, then. In the new castle,’ he said nodding up at the dark bulk of Mategriffon, which loomed over us. Then he smiled, turned his horse and, followed by his knights, he rode away.
‘That is a rare privilege,’ said Sir James. ‘To dine with the King. You’d best make sure you don’t disgrace yourself.’
He was right, and I had to perform, too. I bid him a swift farewell and hurried back to the monastery to begin working on the music; I needed to create something really special, I said to myself. But inside my head the words Sir Alan
Dale,
Sir
Alan of Westbury,
and
Alan, the Knight of
Westbury, were darting about like a flock of sparrows trapped in a hall.
Robin was pleased for me when I told him I would be playing for the King. He was out of bed and feeding Keelie with scraps from a plate of boiled mutton. He had lost a lot of weight but seemed cheerful considering how close to death he had been. ‘I’ve decided that I should have more fun,’ he declared. ‘Life is short and death awaits us all, and as I am doubtless damned for all eternity for my many sins, I have decided that I will have some pleasure before I face the fires of Hell. So come on Alan, let us drink a flask of wine together and you can play something for me.’
And so I indulged my master. And we passed a very pleasant evening, singing, drinking, making merry. At midnight, when my head was swimming and my hands were stiff and cramped from the vielle, I laid down my instrument and made to leave. Nur would be waiting for me in my cell and I longed to be naked with her under the blankets.
‘Alan,’ said Robin, as I had risen and was making unsteadily for the door. ‘Sit down again for a moment. I want to talk to you.’ I duly sat down again on a stool by the big table. ‘I want you to do something for me,’ Robin said, and he seemed entirely sober, his eyes shining in the candlelight. ‘I want you to find out who is trying to kill me. Discreetly and quickly, find out who it is, and report back to me. There have been three attempts in the past year, and by sheer luck, I have survived them all. But I will not always be so lucky. If you wish to serve me well, find the man responsible.’
I had been half-expecting something like this. Robin was right; the situation could not go on with a killer running loose, undetected in Robin’s
familia.
I nodded my acceptance at Robin. And he said: ‘Tell me what we know so far of the three attempts...’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘the first attempt, in your chamber at Kirkton, was made by that archer Lloyd ap Gruffudd - Owain has discovered from his enquiries in Wales that Lloyd was promised the hundred pounds of German silver by Murdac’s man, and also that his only son’s life had been threatened if he did not kill you. Obviously, he’s dead but his wife back in Wales was quick to tell Owain’s man everything she knew; she wanted to be sure there would be no reprisals from us. Owain sent her a handful of coins for her honesty and has brought her and her son to live at Kirkton Castle where they will be safe. So Lloyd is dead, but the lure of Murdac’s blood money could be inducing anyone, any archer, man-at-arms, or even knight to try to claim it.’
‘I wish I could claim it myself,’ said Robin gloomily. I knew that he was growing very short of money; the King had yet to pay him a single penny piece, and the money he had borrowed in England was nearly gone - but I did not wish to be distracted from the discussion of the assassin and so I ignored his comment and said: ‘We also know that, who ever it is, it is someone close to you because both times, with the snake and the poisoned fruit, the killer had easy access to your private chamber or pavilion, therefore it is someone whose presence there would not be commented on. But that still doesn’t narrow the field. Almost anyone who serves you could find an excuse to come in here; they could say, if asked, that they were delivering a message from Owain, or Little John, or Sir James, for example. So that doesn’t help us much.’
‘Well, that stops now,’ said Robin decisively. ‘From now on, the only way to get in touch with me, to speak to me, to see me is through you ... and through John, I suppose. I can’t believe John Nailor would want me dead after all these years. In fact, if he did want me dead, I’d already be dead.
‘So,’ my master continued, ‘all contact with me must go through you and John. You bring me my food, tasted by Keelie, of course,’ and he smiled at the yellow bundle that was curled up peacefully in the corner of the chamber, ‘you bring me my wine, any orders for the men go through you, anyone who wants to speak to me talks to you or John and you relay that to me. If I leave this place, either you or John accompanies me at all times. Is that clear?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but it all this really necessary? It’s going to look very odd - and the men won’t like it. They will feel you don’t trust them.’
‘Can’t be helped,’ said Robin. ‘The more quickly you find out who the assassin is, the more quickly we can stop this charade. Have you any ideas?’
‘I have a feeling the assassin may be a woman,’ I said. ‘And I’m not truly convinced the motive is Murdac’s money. It may well be Sir Richard Malbête. When I ran into him in Messina, the night after the battle, he promised me that he would have his revenge on you - and me.’
‘It could be Malbête,’ he said, musingly. ‘But that would mean the attempt in France was still made by somebody else, as the Beast did not join us until Messina. Could there really be three assassins - one in Yorkshire, one in France and one here? I can’t see it. It must be one person.’ He rested his chin in his left palm and stared into space for a while.
‘Why do you think it might be a woman?’ Robin asked after a while.
‘Because of the nature of the attacks,’ I said. ‘They are underhand, silent, sneaky: a snake in the bed, poisoned food; that’s not the work of a man, a soldier.’
‘I think you may have an exaggerated idea of the honour of our fighting men,’ said Robin with a laugh. ‘And while I hesitate to boast of my prowess, the odds against killing me, man to man, face to face, each of us armed are reasonably long. And even if he could do it, it might take time to dispatch me, and, who knows, the renowned swordsman Alan of Westbury, might come to my aide.’ He was teasing me. ‘No, if you have to kill someone, poison is as good a way as any.’
I said nothing; I couldn’t explain it, but I felt sure that the assassin was not a warrior. I could not think how to express it properly to Robin, so I held my tongue on the matter. Instead, we discussed the practicalities of Robin’s plan to isolate himself, and how it would work on a daily basis.
As I was leaving, Robin grasped my arm. He said: ‘I know that we have not always seen things the same way; I know that sometimes, for whatever reasons, you are angry with me; but I want you to know that I appreciate your undertaking this task, and I’m aware that, if you succeed, I will owe you my life.’
As I stared into his face, I thought of Ruth, and the man whose life was sacrificed to appease a false woodland god in our outlaw days, and a dozen other cruelties that Robin had practiced in pursuit of his personal goals - but in that moment I could not find any of the anger I had felt in the past.
And then I thought of all he had done for me, of the number of times he had saved me, in battle and by altering the course of my life; of the lordship of Westbury, of the friendship he had shown me, of my position of honour among the ranks of his tough men-at-arms.
‘I am doing nothing but my duty as a loyal vassal, and nothing I do not owe you a hundred times over,’ I said with genuine feeling in my voice. And gripped his forearm and left before my emotions undid me.
The King was in a festive mood as we gathered in the great hall of Mategriffon Castle for his revels. A great fire roared on two giant flagstones in the centre of the hall, the sparks flying upwards to disappear in the dark bank of smoke in the ceiling which only slowly dissipated through the openings, high up at the sides of the hall roof. Tables were set out in a horseshoe shape around the great fire, which gave the meal a cosy family feeling that was seldom seen in at a royal feast. At the centre of the head table sat the King, who was calling out toasts and greetings to his guests - there were no more than two dozen of us - and urging them to taste the choicest cuts of meat on the silver platters scattered about the table. Beside the King, to his right in the place of honour, sat Tancred, King of Sicily, a wizened little monkey of a man with a ribbon of dark hair scraped over the top of his bald head in an attempt to hide his dearth of locks.