And so, mollified, I told my beautiful friend Marie-Anne how brave and clever I had been, and how foolish and sore Sir Ralph Murdac must now feel, while others who had heard the story drifted away from the table and still others joined the throng about me. Wine was fetched, and then food for the mid-day meal. Marie-Anne told me how she and Robin had visited the wise woman in Locksley village, and been forced to spend the night because of the lateness of the hour, how and the woman had said that the baby would be a boy, and that he would grow into a powerful man, a great warrior. ‘He kicks like a warrior, at least,’ said my lady, wincing as a ripple shuddered across her great belly.
It was a Sunday, and no work was to be done, and so the day passed in eating and drinking, storytelling and riddles and laughter, and other gentle amusements. As the light began to fade, and the candles were lit, I brought out my apple-wood veille, and played and sang for my master’s wife, and the men of our bold company, until it was time for sleep. But that night I dreamt of a huge mound of German silver coins, half as high as a man, standing, glinting, in a pool of Robin’s blood.
We trained hard at Kirkton; each morning I was out in the fields giving basic lessons in swordcraft to the archers. If an archer has run out of arrows, he is more or less defenceless, so each of our bowmen had been issued with a short sword, and it was my task to teach them the rudiments of its use. It is not easy to train two hundred men, but they were broken down into groups of twenty under the command of a junior officer called a vintenar, who was paid double wages. The vintenars answered to Owain for the conduct and discipline of their men and they also received extra training from me and from Little John in the sword. Usually I would gather the ten vintenars together an hour or so before a training session and explain what we would be practicing that day, perhaps a simple block and thrust routine, and work with them until they understood it. Then the vintenars were expected to demonstrate it to the men. I would wander about the flat-ish piece of worn field where we practiced, watching groups of twenty men hacking and lunging at each other, giving advice, and correcting technique where necessary. I was treated with a great deal of respect after my midnight encounter with the would-be murderer and, despite my tender years, on the subject of sword play I was listened to as if my words were The Gospel itself. After a couple of hours with the archers, I would dismiss them and have a one-on-one sword practice session with Little John; often a crowd of bowmen lingered to watch.
John had been master-at-arms for Robin’s father and he was the finest man with any weapon that I ever saw, perhaps save Robin himself, and one other. The big man preferred, in battle, to wield a great double-bladed war axe but, when we practised, he usually fought with an ordinary sword and shield, and I with my old sword and my Spanish poniard. Sword and shield was a foot soldier’s normal combination, perhaps with a long spear, too. Two fields over from where my archers were banging away at each other with their short blades, Little John would be putting our hundred or so spearmen through their paces. At his bellowed commands, the spearmen would perform intricate evolutions with locked shields, creating a number of massed formations - ‘the hedge-hog’, a defensive circle of spears, ‘the boar’s snout’, an attacking arrow-shaped configuration, and ‘the shield wall’, the standard line-up against a similarly arraigned enemy.
Little John and I had a long running argument about my choice of weapons: he strongly believed that I needed to use a shield; I preferred the freedom and speed gained by fighting without one. I also argued that my role in battle was not primarily as a fighting man but as Robin’s aide-de-camp and messenger: I would be galloping to the various parts of his army, scattered where ever they might be, and delivering his orders. The kite-shaped shields that we used were heavy and cumbersome items, and I needed to be swift and light on the field. Of course, I did know in theory how to use a shield - its uses had been knocked into me since my first days with Robin’s outlaw band - but I preferred, if I had to fight, the elegant dance of poniard and sword. Little John muttered that I was being far too fancy. ‘Battle is about killing the most men as fast as you can, and keeping as many of
our
men as safe as possible. It’s not a dance; it’s not a game. It’s about killing him quickly, and saving your own neck from his blade. And for that you need a shield.’ I shook my head. In battle my Spanish dagger was sturdy enough at its hilt to block a sword strike, my body was usually armoured with a knee-length hauberk and heavy boots, my head defended with a stout helmet and, in a melee, I liked to be able to give out deadly blows with both hands.
When John and I made our battle practices, the main difficulty I had was overcoming his brawn. I was a mere youth then, still slim of hip and, although very fit, not yet in my full bodily strength. John was a seasoned warrior of more than thirty summers, nearly seven feet in height and with a chest that was nearly two foot thick. When he struck at me with the sword, I had to avoid the blow altogether, as its power would have smashed straight through the sword-and-dagger blocks I might have tried with another man. Instead, I always waited for him to launch his brutal attack, evaded it and then counter-attacked against his sword arm. I knew that a powerful blow from a sword on the upper arm could break bone, even if it could not penetrate a chainmail hauberk. And a man before me with a broken sword arm is a dead man.
One fine morning not long after my return from Nottingham, John and I were circling each other on the scrubby grass. I was taunting him, suggesting that, as he was so long unmarried, his preference for bed partners must be handsome boys, and making damn sure that I stayed out of his long sword’s reach. He was suggesting that I come a little closer and find out what he really liked to do to insolent children like me. It was all good ribald fun and raised many a laugh from the watching circle of archers and spearmen. But I thought I had genuinely managed to anger him this time, and when I was reciting a little rhyme that went, if I remember rightly, ‘Little John, he’s not pretty, but he loves to get his member shitty ...’ he gave a great snarl like a maddened bear and lunged at me, slicing down hard at my head. I thought I saw my chance and, dodging outside the massive blow, swung my blade hard, back-handed at his outreached arm. And missed. He was feinting, of course, and my blade never came within an inch of his arm. I was off balance and the next thing I knew, John’s shield had crashed with stunning force into my sword arm and side, I was lifted high in the air - I saw the faces of the watching men whirling around me - and then God deposited me softly on the turf before the hard world came hurtling up and smashed into my back. There was a noise like the roaring of the sea and I found, panicking, that I could not breathe. My lungs had ceased to function, I was drowning on dry land.
‘You all right, youngster?’ said a huge head with a thatch of straw-coloured hair, directly above me. It was almost blocking out the sun. I could not breathe and I only made the merest of nods. ‘That,’ the giant head continued, ‘is another use of the shield. Take note.’ An enormous hand came towards me and, taking a bunch of my chainmail hauberk in its fist, raised me to my feet. ‘Had enough?’ said John, as I stumbled around on legs of jelly trying to collect my dropped sword and poniard.
“Course not,’ I said, but I was weaving on my feet, trying to find my balance and walking in circles. ‘Do your worst, John, you big ... bug ... bigger ... Come on, come on, I’ll have you this time ...’ Suddenly I vomited; a heave and a gush of half-digested food splashed out on to the green grass.
‘If that is your weapon of choice,’ said John indicating the pool of stinking vomit, ‘I surrender to you, O noble knight. You have bested me.’ And he bowed low, to ironic cheers from the crowd.
A tall figure with sandy blond hair and a crumpled face pushed through the throng and made his way over to me. ‘Dale,’ said Sir James de Brus, ‘Lord Locksley wants to see you in his counting house. If you are at liberty...’ He looked down his nose at me, as I stood there swaying: sweaty, winded, with strands of yellow spit-vomit hanging from my mouth. Then he sniffed once and turned away.
I recovered my wind on the way back up to the castle, but my right forearm and ribs ached from the mighty blow that John had dealt me. But, by the time I was entering the courtyard of the castle, my head had cleared and I was thinking about my next bout with John. And I knew exactly how to get him ...
Robin’s counting house, the treasury where he kept his silver was a low, strongly built structure next to the hall. I knocked on the door and was called in and I found Robin seated in front of a large table covered with a chequered cloth of black and white squares, on which he used to reckon his accounts. Coloured pebbles were placed on various squares of the cloth, tokens that represented different amounts of money. The room was dim, the narrow windows not permitting much light, and Robin had a candle on the table in front of him. He looked half-furious, half-puzzled and was alternately peering at a sheaf of parchments gripped in one fist and glaring at the pebbles on the chequered cloth.
‘I don’t understand it,’ he said. ‘This can’t be right... I wish Hugh was here to deal with this ...’ and then he stopped abruptly as if he had bitten his tongue.
I knew why: Hugh, his older brother, had at one time been his chief lieutenant, chancellor and spy master and had controlled the money for Robin’s band when they had been outlaws. But Hugh was now dead.
Robin threw down the parchments on the table in disgust. ‘I can’t make head nor tail of this,’ he said, ‘but I can show you in a much more simple way why we have a big problem. Go to the big coffer yonder and open it.’
On the far side of the room was a huge iron-bound chest. In more carefree days, it had contained Robin’s hoard of silver; the river of money that flowed from robbing wealthy travellers in Sherwood, or which had been paid to Robin by villages seeking his protection, or offered as tribute by friends, rivals, even enemies, seeking his justice - the silver river had flowed into that huge, oak-and-iron bound box, filling it to the brim.
I hesitated - in our outlaw days, to touch the coffer was an offence punishable by death. ‘Go on,’ said Robin with a touch of irritation, as he saw me pausing, ‘just open it. You have my full permission.’
I turned the key in the lock, with some difficulty, and slid back the locking bar. Then I pushed up the heavy oak lid of the box. I looked inside: the coffer was empty, apart from a handful of silver pennies that winked at me from the bottom of the wooden space. The money was gone.
Chapter Three
I looked at Robin aghast. ‘It’s been stolen,’ I blurted. ‘Who would dare? And how could they ...’
‘It hasn’t been stolen, Alan, at least I don’t think so,’ interrupted Robin, ‘it has been spent. By me. I handed over an earl’s ransom - quite literally - to arrange our pardons and outfitting this company for war in Outremer has not been cheap. The Locksley rents are mostly paid in kind, and with an army to feed ... No, Alan, I have simply spent more than I should have. So, we have a problem. The King bids us join him in Lyons with all our forces in July - that’s what his letter said - and I have to transport four hundred men-at-arms, and two hundred horses, as well as a mountain of equipment, food, weapons and forage to France. And though the King has promised to recompense me for providing battle-ready men, I have yet to see any of his silver, and if I know royalty, I won’t see any before we parade inside the broken gates of Jerusalem.’ He paused, thinking for a moment. Then he said: ‘We need the Jews, Alan; we need Reuben.’
An hour later, Robin and myself were on the road, our horses’ noses pointing north towards York. We rode fast, just the two of us, unaccompanied by any of Robin’s men. This was unusual behaviour for a great man, and not a little dangerous, too: Robin had plenty of enemies between Sheffield and York who would be pleased to have him fall into their hands. Although he was no longer an outlaw, with the King abroad he could have been held for ransom by any avaricious baron; and then there was the matter of Murdac’s price on his head.
‘I don’t want to be bothered with a long train of servants and men-at-arms,’ said Robin when I raised my concerns about him travelling without protection. ‘And, besides, I’m taking you along to look after me,’ he grinned. ‘Are you not up to the job?’ I frowned at him. I knew why he wanted to travel light; he didn’t want anyone to know that he was short of money. He planned to visit Reuben, an old and trusted friend, arrange to borrow a large quantity of cash from the Jews of York, and be back in Kirkton in a couple of days. ‘Come on, Alan. We’ll travel in plain, ordinary clothes, a couple of pilgrims, but well armed and moving fast - no pomp, no fanfare, it’ll be just like the old days, we’ll have some fun ...’
And it was fun. I rarely got to spend time alone with Robin these days, and while I was still very slightly afraid of him - I never forgot that among other heinous crimes he had condoned the murder of his own brother - I always relished his company. And we were well armed: both of us in mail coats, Robin with his war bow and arrow bag, and a fine sword, myself with my old sword and poniard. I also wore my new sky blue embroidered hood, but that was only to annoy Robin and show him that, while I’d always be his loyal man, I cared not a fig for his hidebound ideas about headwear.
We pushed our horses hard for several hours and then, as night began to fall, we bivouacked in a small wood not far from Pontefract Castle. That great castle was held by Roger de Lacy, the new Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, and we could have received a welcome worthy of an Earl in his stone hall, had we chosen; but Robin wanted to keep his journey secret; and I was happy for as few people as possible to know that Robin was roaming the countryside with only one armed retainer. I think too, in hindsight, that Robin occasionally found the trappings of his earldom a heavy burden and he longed for a return to the simple life of an outlaw; although he had never yet actually voiced this feeling to me.