There were other small changes too. Our settlement was growing. Young men, sent by Robin, had drifted into Thangbrand’s in ones and twos over the summer. For the most part, they were unprepossessing: often malnourished, exhausted and with an air of desperation. But Thangbrand welcomed them, fed them and, when they had rested, they joined us on the well-swept yard for battle practice every day. Soon there were ten of us, fifteen, twenty in a line; swinging swords or using spear and shield in combination, learning battle manoeuvres, drilling endlessly, while an exasperated Thangbrand roared at some unfortunate newly arrived vagabond: ‘No, you fool, it’s a war spear, not a ox goad. Don’t poke with it, you are supposed to be stabbing a man, not tickling him. God save us all from plough-bred peasants!’
Not all the newcomers joined us in this farcical display. The men with greater than average physical strength were trained to the bow: lifting great weights all day, rocks and sacks of grain to condition their muscles, and shooting yard-long ash arrows at round straw-filled targets a hundred paces away, not always with the greatest of success. Those men who could ride, and had brought their own or stolen horses, were trained separately, too. I was taught to ride properly by Hugh, who soon had me galloping around a paddock, jumping over small hurdles with my arms folded across my chest, gripping the horse only with my knees. He trained the cavalry contingent, too. They would gallop, with a blunt lance couched under one arm, at a quintain: a horizontal pole with a target shield at one end and a counterweight (usually a bag of grain) at the other. The pole was mounted on a vertical post and when the shield was struck from horseback by the lance the contraption would rotate at high speed and the bag of grain could sweep an unwary horseman off his seat as he rode past. Guy was fascinated by the quintain. He would watch the men practising for hours and, strangely, when they were knocked out of the saddle, though the other onlookers guffawed and wiped away tears of hilarity, Guy never did. At the end of one training session, he begged a horse for an hour and tried it himself. Of course, like all the other novices, he was tumbled into the dirt by the heavy swinging bag of grain every time he charged the machine. But he didn’t give up. He worked out that speed was the essence; he had to be moving fast enough to avoid the sweep of the counterweight, but at high speed it was difficult to hit the target shield with your lance and you risked horse and rider crashing into the stout wooden block if your lance didn’t jab it out of your path.
I thoroughly enjoyed watching Guy being hurled from the saddle again and again to thump into the turf of the cavalry training field. But I also felt a grudging respect. He never gave up. After each tumble, he got up, brushed the dirt from his tunic and hose, recaptured the horse and climbed stiffly back into the saddle. By the end of that first session he had managed, once, successfully to hit the target and, admittedly with a dangerous sway of his body, had ridden clear, raising his lance in triumph and shouting his victory to the greenwood. Within the week he was able to gallop past, striking the shield cleanly and with considerable force, without the swinging counterweight coming anywhere near him.
He was improving with the sword, too. Almost in spite of Thangbrand’s plodding teaching methods, Guy was becoming skilled on the exercise yard. When we paired off to practise sword combat, instead of the furious storm of blows that used to batter at my defences, Guy was showing craft, cunning even. He feinted, made mock-lunges, kept me off balance and then struck; knocking me sprawling with the flat of the blade and then holding the sharp tip at my throat and demanding surrender. He no longer cursed me or tried to hurt me in petty ways on the exercise field: he was taking it seriously; not me, but the practice of war. And he was good at it.
Thangbrand noticed it and began getting Guy to demonstrate particular sword and shield manoeuvres, with me as his partner. A pattern emerged: a cut or two, a clash of shields and I’d be sprawling on the ground. One day, knocked on the flat of my back for the twentieth time, I felt a great weariness in my bones and I couldn’t bring myself to get to my feet as the session ended. I just lay there listening to the sounds of the other men and boys leaving the yard: the ribald laughter, the clatter of arms, a curse or two and then blessed silence. I continued to lie there, staring up at the blue summer sky above, when a voice spoke.
‘You are not all that bad, you know,’ it said. ‘You are not strong yet, it’s true. But you are quick - very quick, I believe. The problem is that you don’t move your feet. You stand like a woodsman trying to chop down a tree. Your enemy isn’t a tree. He’s a living, breathing, fast-moving, fighting man. And, if he knows how to move his feet, he’ll kill you.’
It was a good voice, mellow and mild but with comforting depth. I turned my head and looked up at Sir Richard at Lea standing there blocking out the sunlight. He held out his hand and I scrambled to my feet.
Sir Richard had recovered well from his injuries. I had noticed him exercising with some of the other men-at-arms; I’d even seen him take a tilt at the quintain, and, of course, he struck the target beautifully dead in the centre and cantered on unscathed. He was just marking time, really, waiting for Sir Ralph Murdac to raise the money for his ransom. But there seemed to be some delay, I didn’t know what. He could have escaped any time he wished; he wore a sword, had been allocated a horse, and he was almost entirely healed. But he was a gentleman, a knight, and he had given his parole to Robin.
‘Watch my feet,’ he said. And, drawing his sword, he executed a few elegant passes, moving lightly on the balls of his feet, back and forward on the exercise yard. It looked simple; half steps back and forward, side to side, a large quick pace before the lunge. Then he drew a circle in the dirt about a yard wide and gave me his sword. ‘I’ll stay in this circle,’ he said. ‘Try and hit me.’
‘But I might hurt you,’ I said. He just laughed.
So he stood unarmed in the dirt circle and I lunged halfheartedly at him with his sword. He moved easily, casually, out of the way of the blade. ‘Come on, try harder,’ he said. I lunged again, faster this time. He moved nimbly once more, dancing out of the way. I struck as fast as I could: a snake-quick stab at his heart. He merely twisted his body to avoid the blade. I could see how he thought this would play out, and it irritated me: I’d poke at him, the clumsy boy, he’d give a manly guffaw, and skip lightly out of my path. I was well fed with such humiliation, so I hacked hard and suddenly at his head; he ducked only just in time. Then I held the sword with two hands and, with a swirl of real anger in my gut, I swung it as hard and fast as I could at his middle. If the blow had struck his waist, it would have sliced into his body and half severed him. He stepped forward, lightning fast, to the edge of the circle, caught my double handed grip on the hilt with his left hand, half-blocking my swing, his right foot was outside my right foot, his right hand was under my left shoulder, shoving hard - and I was tumbled into the dirt once again. ‘You are quick,’ said Sir Richard, ‘angry, too. That’s good. A man needs his anger in a fight.’ He helped me up again. ‘Now it’s your turn,’ and he nodded towards the circle in the dirt.
And so Sir Richard at Lea, the renowned and noble knight, taught me to move my feet. For the rest of the morning, and then every morning after Thangbrand’s battle practice for the next few weeks, I stood in the dirt circle as Richard lunged, swiped and hacked at my dodging body. He attacked slowly at first, building the basic foot movements into my mind, so that they became second nature. Then he would speed up, even try to take me by surprise. After a month, he let me use my sword to defend myself and he started by teaching me the basic blocks, and after a while some more complicated patterns; but, he emphasised again and again until I was sick of hearing it, it was my feet that mattered.
As Sir Richard and I practised in our dirt circle, we were often watched. Bernard, come to collect his daily rations from the hall, would lounge against the side of the building, grinning as I swiped at Richard and missed or was tumbled into the dust. And most days little yellow Godifa would stand solemn-faced by the edge of the practice ground and gaze at us as I sweated, and skipped, grunted and lunged on the exercise yard. She never said a word and always by the end of the session, at noon, when Richard and I would go and drink a pint of ale together in the buttery, she was gone.
I enjoyed the after-exercise drink as much as the sword-work itself. Sir Richard was taciturn at first, though perfectly amiable. But gradually I began to learn a little about him. He was more than just an ordinary knight, I discovered. He was a Poor Fellow-Soldier of Christ and the Temple of Solomon: one of the famous Knights Templar. They were the elite forces of Christendom, trained for many years in all forms of arms to become perfect killing machines for the glory of God. I was being taught to use a sword, it slowly dawned on me, by one of the best soldiers in the world. The previous year, Sir Richard told me, he had been one of the few Templar Knights to escape the massacre at Hattin, when the infidel Saladin had smashed a Christian army and murdered hundreds of Christian knights who had been taken prisoner. Later that year, Saladin had captured Jerusalem itself and the Pope had ordered a new expedition to free the Holy City from the hordes of Islam. Sir Richard had been sent back to his homeland to preach Holy War to the English and help King Henry raise forces for the great battles to come in Outremer.
He had ridden out with Murdac’s men that spring morning on a whim, feeling a need for some exercise and excitement; he had believed he was going out on a jaunt to punish a rabble of outlaws and the last thing he expected was to be grievously wounded and taken prisoner for ransom.
‘But God always has a plan, Alan,’ he said to me when I asked if he cursed his fate. And I remembered that he, like all the Templars, was a monk as well as a soldier.
The autumn approached and, with Sir Richard’s help, I grew quick with a sword. I was making musical progress, too, with Bernard; and with his encouragement I was beginning to compose my own songs. They were embarrassing little ditties but Bernard was kind - on occasion he could be scathing, but he never made adverse comments about my attempts at composition, never. So I made love songs, picturing Robin’s beautiful lady Marie-Anne in my mind and pretending that I was her lover.
At first, I found it quite difficult to play the vielle. Bernard was introducing me to some of the simpler songs he had written. But even for an easy
canso
, the fingering on the strings had to be precise and the changes of position executed swiftly. One day Bernard lost his temper and shouted at me: ‘On that stretch of mud over there, with a heavy sword and shield in your hands, you seem to move your feet quite daintily for that knightly oaf - all I’m asking for is that you move your fingers half as neatly for my music.’ In a flash of inspiration, I realised he was jealous of Sir Richard, and the time we spent together. I was touched. It made me realise, perhaps for the first time, that I had real friends in this wilderness.
A week later, Robin returned to Thangbrand’s.
Chapter Six
The Lord of Sherwood arrived at Thangbrand’s just after dawn on a bright September day, accompanied by half a dozen grim archers led by their captain Owain, and a string of thirty unladen packhorses. The whole community turned out to greet him and he and his brother Hugh embraced as if it had been five years rather than five months since they had seen each other. I felt rather shy around Robin; the few days we had spent in each other’s company seemed a long time ago and I wondered if he had changed, and even whether he would remember the callow boy he had sung with, and fought beside, and then left behind in the spring. So I hovered on the edge of the scrum of outlaws surrounding their returning master like eager hounds round a huntsman.
He saw me through the throng and pushed his way towards me. ‘Alan,’ he said, ‘I have missed your music,’ and I felt a great rush of warmth for the man. I immediately forgave him for leaving me at Thangbrand’s but felt an almost ungovernable urge to blurt out that I had missed him too. Thankfully, I controlled myself. ‘How are you keeping?’ he asked, clasping my shoulders with both hands and boring into my head with his silver eyes. ‘I hope Bernard has not led you astray from your studies with drink and loose women?’ He smiled at me. I grinned back.
‘Bernard is . . .’ I began. ‘Bernard is . . . well, he’s a great musician,’ I said foolishly. He laughed and said: ‘Well, I hope he can spare you from your music-making for a day or so. I have need of your famous light fingers. Pack a warm cloak and a deep hood, and get saddled up. We’re going to an ale house in Nottingham - just you and I - and leaving within the hour.’ Then he turned away to speak to Thangbrand.
I found this news, in my boyish way, tremendously exciting - and also slightly unnerving. The last time I had been in Nottingham, I’d been arrested as a thief, and nearly lost my arm. And a tavern seemed a strange destination as we had plenty of ale, and wine too, at Thangbrand’s. But just to be going on a journey alone with Robin made me feel special. Privileged. My master had picked out me as his travelling companion; we were going on an adventure together. I collected cloak and hood, strapped on my sword, and saddled a brown pony, the rouncey that Hugh had taught me to ride on. The horse was a placid creature, not worth much in terms of silver, but he had a lot of stamina, and could run all day and all night, if necessary. And he knew me and would not throw me off and cause me to be shamed in front of Robin.
Within the hour we were on the road, jogging along, apparently in no particular hurry, and Robin explained what was to be required of me. It all sounded simple enough, I was relieved to hear: an easy job for a cut-purse, and something I had done a hundred times before.
‘We are going to The Trip To Jerusalem, the new ale house just below the castle in Nottingham. You know it?’ said Robin as we trotted along in the September sunshine. I knew it: it was a lively place with good ale, hacked out of the sandstone rock that the castle was built on, and much frequented by armed pilgrims headed for the Holy Land and Sir Ralph Murdac’s off-duty men-at-arms. When I had been in Nottingham, I tended to avoid the place, not because it lacked conviviality, but because of the military clientele. But I knew it, right enough.