King's Man (13 page)

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.