‘There is a man who drinks there every night,’ continued Robin. ‘Name of David. A sot. And he carries a key in a pouch at his waist all times. I want you to steal that pouch, that key, without him noticing. Can you do it?’
‘As easy as kiss my hand,’ I said. ‘That’s the simple part. But the difficult part is getting away afterwards. He will surely miss the purse sooner or later after I’ve lifted it; if luck is against us, perhaps only a few moments afterwards. Then there will the hue and cry, and we will be out in the streets of Nottingham after curfew, two thieves with no home to hide in and every man’s hand against us. They’ll catch us, sir. No doubt about it.’
‘They won’t. Trust me for that. We will not stop long in Nottingham; we shall be out of the gates and on the road before your victim knows what he is missing.’
‘But the gates are locked at sundown, and none may pass till dawn, by order of the sheriff.’
‘Trust me, Alan. I know another kind of key, a golden one, which will open any gate guarded by a poor man. But we must make haste now. We must be at The Trip an hour after sundown.’
We put spurs to our mounts and raised dust for many long miles until, by late afternoon, our horses lathered, our hoods pulled well forward, we were passing through the open gates of Nottingham and into the familiar crowded streets of my larcenous childhood.
We tied up our horses at a rail outside The Trip and, ordering a flagon of ale, we took our places at a rough table in the corner of the dimly lit place. My aching back - I was not used to such long rides - rested against the cool sandstone of the wall as I sipped my ale and looked around me.
The room was moderately full of drinkers; there were perhaps a dozen, seated at small tables or on benches around the wall. A large communal table dominated the place, at which simple food, soup or bread and cheese, was served by a full-fleshed wench with forearms as plump as my own legs. A tall, thin, dark man stood sipping a mug of ale and leaning against the wall by the fire. He looked a little foreign; sinister even. I saw him look at Robin, then stare round the room and then glance over to Robin again. He seemed unnaturally interested in us. I wondered if he were a spy, or an informer, for the sheriff, and a ripple of fear went through my body. We sat sipping quietly in the corner, saying little, minding our business. I hunched down and pulled my hood further forward to cover my face. When I looked up again, the dark man was still looking at us. He caught Robin’s eye and then indicated, with a very slight inclination of his head a hugely fat man seated at the communal table, half-stupefied with drink, his head lolling. Robin nodded almost imperceptibly at the dark man, and I felt a surge of relief rush into my stomach. The dark man finished his mug of ale, put it down on a nearby table and walked out of the door.
Robin put his head close to mine and said very quietly, ‘You see our mark?’
I nodded.
‘You are the master, in this situation,’ he said in a voice only a little above a whisper. ‘This is your work. How do you want to do it?’ I turned to look at him in utter astonishment. My cheeks flushed with pride. Robin Hood, Lord of Outlaws, was asking my advice on the execution of a crime. I quickly collected my wits and said: ‘Distraction. I need you to make a distraction while I’m taking the purse.’
‘Very good,’ said Robin. ‘What do you suggest?’
Again I was surprised and flattered by his confidence in my opinions. It was a novel sensation taking charge in the presence of my master. And, I found, a pleasurable one. Reflecting on this later, I realise that Robin knew exactly how to cut a purse - he had after all been living, thriving even, outside the law for many years. He was merely testing me. But at the time, his deference to my views gave my soul a great lift.
‘I will sit beside him on his left hand side, the side the pouch is on,’ I whispered. ‘You sit opposite, on the other side of the table. Take your cloak off and put it beside you on the table. Pretend to be drunk. We order food and drink, and sit for a while, we order more, and when a fresh pot of ale arrives, you drunkenly spill it all over the mark. Then, crying aloud how sorry you are, damning your own clumsiness, you come round on to his side of the table and begin to mop at his clothes with your cloak. Do it roughly, loudly crying your shame at having wetted such a fine gentleman. He will ask you to stop pawing at him, but you must insist that he must be dried and that you must dry him to make amends. Play the drunken fool to the hilt, but make sure, make certain-sure that his lefthand side is covered by your cloak, as you mop away at his clothes. That’s very important.’
‘I understand,’ said Robin gravely. ‘And while the cloak covers his left side, you cut loose the pouch?’
‘And in the confusion - let us hope that he becomes angry at your clumsy ministrations and makes a fuss; you may also raise your voice, become angry yourself - I shall leave the inn and wait for you in the alley by the horses. Leave as soon as you can after me. Then we ride.’
‘A good plan, Alan,’ Robin said. ‘A very good plan. Are you ready?’ I nodded. Robin rose, and strode towards the communal table, weaving slightly and shouting for the pot boy to bring more ale, quickly, d’ye hear, and some bread and cheese, not too mouldy, you dog! I followed after him with lowered eyes, like a servant embarrassed by his drunken master, and slid into my place beside the mark.
‘That,’ said Robin, trying hard, and failing to control his laughter, ‘was the most fun I have had in an age.’ We were trotting up the road leading north out of Nottingham, Robin having bribed the gatekeeper handsomely to let us out, curfew notwithstanding. I was almost helpless with laughter, too, and having difficulty staying on the back of my rouncey. Robin had a natural talent for play-acting, and clearly he had enjoyed the role of drunken boor to an almost indecent extent. He had roared for more ale, spilled it, apologised to the mark, mopped him and cursed himself with huge enthusiasm. His placing of the folds of the cloak had been inch-perfect and my hands were under it with my little knife as he dabbed at the poor mark’s face with the far edge of the garment, covering the man’s eyes as I slipped the pouch into my tunic and walked quickly towards the outdoor privy and away into the night. Then he joined me only moments later, roaring backwards to the inside of the room about innocent mistakes, anyone can spill a drink, and some folk should not think themselves too good to mix with honest men.
We tried to pull ourselves together, but every time I caught Robin’s eye we would both begin giggling, louder and louder, until we were howling with mirth again. Finally, tears streaming down our cheeks, we managed to drive the horses into a canter, the road lit only by starlight and a sliver of moon, and put some miles between Nottingham and ourselves.
Dawn found us riding up the slope of a small hill towards a squat stone tower, about halfway between Nottingham and Thangbrand’s. I had no idea where we were going and for the past hour exhaustion had been hanging heavily on my shoulders. But a day and a night in the saddle seemed to have had no effect on Robin. His back was still straight and he rode with a jaunty grace that I tried my hardest to imitate. At the top of the hill, with the sun bright and cheerful over the eastern horizon, we pulled up at a copse at the summit of the hill and my mouth fell open in surprise. For waiting for us there was Owain the Bowman, his six men and the train of packhorses.
The key in the pouch, I discovered, opened an iron door in the strongly built tower and once it had been flung back, and Owain and Robin had entered with lit torches, I realised why our jaunt into Nottingham had been so important to Robin’s plans.
For any bowman, it was a storehouse of riches. Though it contained no silver, no gold or jewels, it did contain stack upon stack of the best-quality arrows, newly fletched and arranged in bundles of thirty around two leather discs which prevented the goosefeather flights from being crushed against each other. There were also seasoned yew bowstaves in thick bundles, and swords, shields, lances, even a few elderly chain-mail hauberks standing on T-shaped stands.
‘We didn’t bring enough packhorses,’ said Owain.
‘What is this place?’ I asked Robin, staring around at this cornucopia of arms, enough to equip a small army.
‘This is one of our King Henry’s armouries. He is amassing weapons for a great pilgrimage to free the Holy Land from the infidel. Our good friend David, who by now I hope will only just be discovering that he has lost his key, is the King’s Armourer, charged with collecting stores in the north for the great adventure. The King doesn’t trust Ralph Murdac with these weapons, otherwise they would be locked up tight in Nottingham Castle. So David, a loyal King’s man, if a little bibulous, has their charge.’
‘
Had
their charge,’ I said.
‘We’d better hurry, sir,’ said Owain. ‘The armourer will have raised the alarm by now.’ And so we did.
An hour later, with thirty packhorses tottering under monstrous loads, we were back on the road north towards Thangbrand’s. The armoury was only half empty. Robin left the door open and carefully hung the key on a nail on the wall. With a piece of chalk he wrote the words ‘Thank you, Sire,’ on the grey stone beneath it.
Robin was in high spirits as we trotted along on a narrow path through the trees but suddenly he stopped and raised a hand. We all paused, the bowmen taking the bridles of the heavy-laden packhorses to keep the beasts quiet and still. There was a clatter of hooves on the path and I saw the bright yellow thatch and giant frame of Little John approaching at speed round a bend in the road. He was mounted on a huge sweat-lathered horse, and accompanied by two men-at-arms that I had seen at Thangbrand’s but didn’t know well.
Robin waited impassively, silently as John reined his sweating horse in savagely and they stared at each other as the big horse steamed gently in the late summer sunshine.
‘It’s the Peverils,’ said John, after he’d caught his breath. ‘They are raiding our villages again.’
‘Where are they, and how many?’ asked Robin.
‘They’ve sacked Thornings Cross; pillaged the church there, killed a few. Now they are heading north, back to their nests in Hope Valley. About twenty of the bastards.’
‘Geraint, Simon, take this train back to Thangbrand’s,’ Robin was addressing the two men-at-arms who had arrived with John. I was amazed that he knew their names, as I did not. ‘You go with them, Alan.’
‘I would prefer to come with you, sir,’ I said.
‘Do as you’re told,’ snapped Robin. Our mutual hilarity, the camaraderie of our purse-lifting adventure in Nottingham was gone. Robin had assumed his battle demeanour: grim, decisive, a captain not to be questioned.
‘John, lead the way, Owain, you and your bowmen are with me.’
And he was gone, riding hard up the road after Little John, and followed by Owain and his six grim archers. The two men-at-arms looked at me dumbly. And I said: ‘You heard him; take this train to Thangbrand’s. I have other business.’ And I spurred after my disappearing master.
I knew who the Peverils were: a big old sprawling clan of petty bandits and reivers who operated in the north of England, most of the time staying out of the area under Robin’s control. The family claimed to be descended from William the Bastard, though from the wrong side of the blanket, and one branch had once owned an impregnable fortress at Castleton. But because of their evil ways, they had been dispossessed by King Henry thirty odd years ago, and now they made their living by robbery and murder and ransom. In fact, if the truth be told, they were not much different to Robin’s band. There had been some talk of them at Thangbrand’s: the Peverils were reckoned to be cruel but cowardly and until now they had usually respected the places where Robin’s writ had run.
I caught up Robin and his men within half a mile or so, and just followed behind them trying to keep up as they galloped hell-for-leather across the county. I once saw Robin look round and notice me. He frowned but never slackened his pace. I stayed at the end of the tail of men and speeding horses and ate dust for a good fifteen miles, sometimes on small dirt tracks through the woodland, sometimes across meadows, commons and fields, until we pulled up on a gentle rise overlooking a hamlet huddled in the crook of a small stream. A thick cloud of smoke hung over the place, and I could see that at least two cottages were still burning. The place had been totally destroyed: houses torched, cattle and sheep driven off; men murdered and women and children raped. Even the old cross that gave the hamlet its name had been pulled down. As we trotted down the slope into the village, I heard the sound of a woman wailing, and saw her soon afterwards. She was kneeling on the ground in front of a smouldering hovel, with the bloodied corpse of a young boy, maybe six years old, in her arms, rocking back and forward and keening to herself, a thin, high, wordless sound of sorrow. The boy’s head lolled with every rock of her body. We drew up on our horses and Robin dismounted and went over to kneel beside the woman. He put a hand on her shoulder and she started suddenly but stopped that dreadful noise and, through swollen red eyes, she stared at Robin, dumb with grief.
As I looked around the village I saw signs of an evil I could hardly contemplate: the broken, chopped bodies of half a dozen peasants were scattered about the muddy street. The corpse of a priest lay a few yards away, an arm outflung in death. I noticed that some of his fingers were missing, hacked off, no doubt, for the rings they had borne. A girl, her throat slit and gaping like an extra mouth, was propped up sideways against the tumbled stones of the ancient stone cross in the centre of the hamlet. Her skirts had been tucked up around her chest and her naked lap was a mess of caked blood. I saw that someone had taken a knife to her white buttocks and I looked away quickly.
‘It seems they are all dead but her, sir,’ said Owain, indicating the grief-stricken woman. He and some of the men had briefly ridden around the tiny village looking for wounded survivors. The woman holding her dead son stared up at Owain on his horse and then at Robin kneeling beside her. He was offering her his wine flask. She took a sip and then a gulp and then began to sob quietly, her eyes closed, her chin sunk on her neck.