The Death of Robin Hood (31 page)

I apologised to Robert for failing to greet him when I arrived, but he waved away my apologies. ‘You were waiting on the King, Father,’ he said, ‘and I do understand that I must take second place to our sovereign. It is good to see you again.’

We discussed the affairs of Westbury for a few moments – all was well, I learned: the harvest had been gathered in without interference from either of the warring sides, and my steward Baldwin and his sister Alice had the place well in hand – and I told Robert
about the kind of war we had been waging in the south with William of Cassingham.

‘Oh, yes, the famous Willikin of the Weald – the man who hates a Frenchman more than he hates the Devil. Who cuts the heads from all his enemies. We have heard tell of his bold exploits. They sing of them in the ale-houses.’

‘And what of the bold exploits of Robin Hood and Sir Alan Dale?’ I said, finding myself mildly irritated.

‘Ah … they are not sung so much,’ said my son and heir. ‘The Robin Hood tales are a bit old and stale now. What the people like are new, fresh heroes. Young men.’

‘Hmmf,’ I said. Then I came to the question that had been dogging my thoughts since my arrival.

‘Son, it is a joy to see your face and a pleasure to have you at my side but – how come you to be at Rockingham, with Boot and, ah, everybody else?’

‘Did you not know? Why – Uncle Robin summoned us. He said you would have need of us. Do you not need us?’

‘Ah, yes, of course, I need you. Absolutely. Thank you for coming.’

‘What is it, Father, exactly, that you need us for?’ asked my clever son.

‘It is not so much what I need – as your needs that I am thinking of,’ I said, racking my brains. ‘You are sixteen now, I believe. A man, full-grown. You need to be with the army, to be around fighting men, because it is time for you to see the face of battle for the first time.’ I looked solemnly into his eyes. ‘I am taking you to war, my son.’

‘Oh thank you, Father, thank you. I never thought the day would come when you would think me worthy …’ I had a horrible premonition that my son was about to burst into tears. Not the sort of behaviour to be displayed around fighting men if he wanted to be accepted. Instead, he did something far worse.

‘I must
find Tilda and tell her about this!’ he said and he ran out of the stable.

I was in something of a rage that evening when I finally tracked down Robin in the tiny room he had been allocated in one of the castle’s towers. It was more a monk’s cell than a chamber fit for an earl, but Robin made no comment about it and I was too full of outrage to care. I was also feeling decidedly unwell. The long wet ride, the nights of sleeping rough, had taken their toll. My body ached and my head felt as if it were stuffed with wool.

‘What the Devil do you mean by bringing my son and that bloody woman to this place without a word to me? I care not if you order me around the country like some mere lackey – that is your right as my lord. But I do not understand why you feel you must meddle in my family affairs. It is egregious, it is manipulative, it is discourteous, it is … just plain wrong!’ I ran out of words then.

‘Finished?’ said Robin, coolly from his bed. He was half-dressed and holding a letter in his hands, looking at me with mild amusement.

‘Yes,’ I said. I took several deep breaths. ‘But why did you do it, Robin? I do not want that woman around me.’

‘All right,’ said Robin, ‘I accept that I should have told you about it before now. I apologise. But I need Tilda here and I’m sorry if it makes you uneasy but this is far more important than your temporary discomfiture.’

‘Why do you need her?’

‘I could lie to you. But I don’t want to do that. I also do not want to tell you why. So I must ask you to trust me and put up with Tilda’s presence as best you can. She is not an evil woman, I promise you. Marie-Anne rather admires her. I certainly do not believe she is a threat to you or Robert.’

‘That’s it? Your answer is, I’m not telling you, just shut up and trust me.’

Robin stood
up, his face as hard as stone. ‘Sometimes, Alan, you presume too much. We are friends, yes, but I am also your lord. These are my orders: you will suffer this woman’s presence; you will cease from whining like a whipped schoolboy; furthermore you will desist from bursting into my chamber and shouting at me as if I were a tenant late with the rent. That is all. You are dismissed.’

In reply, I sneezed. And sneezed again, involuntarily spraying slime all over myself. Robin stepped across, scowling, and handed me a clean linen kerchief at arm’s length. Then I went away as ordered, grumbling and muttering complaints under my breath like a grandfather.

I stomped across the courtyard of Rockingham Castle towards the stables, damning the whole of Christendom, and particularly the parts of it connected to me by ties of duty or blood, and thinking that I wanted nothing more than to down a hot meal and a cup of wine and curl up in my cloak on the straw in my stall till morning.

But when I got to the stable and poked my head inside, the scene there made me change my mind. Robert and Boot and the two Westbury men-at-arms Nicholas and Simon were seated in a half-circle while Tilda, on her knees before them, tended a small fire in the centre. A blackened pot hung from a hook over it and I could see something bubbling inside. A delicious smell filled the air.

‘Father, you’re back. Just in time for supper,’ said Robert. ‘It is ox-tail stew with carrots and onions.’

‘And there is fresh bread – and wine, too,’ said Boot in his oddly pitched voice.

Tilda looked up at me, towering over her in the doorway of the stable, and gave a smile of such sweetness that I was tempted just to fold myself down beside her by the fire and accept a warm bowl of soup from her hands. Instead, I sneezed mightily once again and, as I was mopping my face with Robin’s kerchief, mumbled something about
not being hungry and stumbled past my companions to my stall. Plucking a heavy cloak from a peg, I stripped off my tunic, boots and hose, rolled myself in it, fell into the pile of straw and went instantly to sleep.

I came struggling up from the depths of slumber and awoke knowing something was wrong. Somebody was in the stall with me; there was just enough light to see a dark figure crouching over me. I moved entirely on instinct. My left arm swept up, grasped a shoulder and heaved the form across my body, pinning it to the straw beside me with my torso. My right hand already had the misericorde unsheathed, the tip now resting below the cheekbone of a pale face, ready to plunge the blade through the eye socket into the brain.

‘Who are you?’

I felt a warm, soft body squirming under my restraining arm, my chest pressed hard to it – and found I was looking into the white face and huge blue-grey eyes of Tilda.

‘Good God, you are quick,’ she said.

I kept the dagger where it was.

‘What do you want? What are you doing in here?’

‘So strong, too,’ she said. I could feel her trying to move under me; I pressed down to hold her still. I was aware of her breasts against my chest. She was wearing only a thin linen chemise, clearly about to go to bed. Our faces were inches apart. Her breath smelled of honey. I felt a surge of blood to my loins – God, how long had it been since I’d had a woman under me?

I rolled off her, sheathed the misericorde and sat up.

‘What are you doing here, woman?’

Tilda sat up. Her raven hair was loose, glossy, and in the dim light – a candle or rushlight was burning in the main part of the stable – I could see several pieces of loose hay caught in the black tresses. Her eyes were laughing now and she was breathing hard from our brief tussle.

‘I am
still a woman of God, you know, Sir Alan. A bride of Christ. I may have fallen from grace at the Priory but I have not entirely forsaken my vows of chastity.’

‘What do you want with me?’ I said. ‘I could easily have killed you.’

My head was swimming. I desperately wanted to lie back down but I could not tear my eyes from her face.

She broke our gaze and looked to the ground by the entrance of the stall. I turned to see what she was looking at. It was a large clay beaker with steam rising from the surface of a dark liquid.

‘I brought you a hot drink – hyssop, horehound and white poppy, some dried ginger root as well, and honey for sweetness.’

I sneezed then and scrubbed at my sore nose with the sleeve of my chemise.

‘So that’s it, is it? Poison?’

‘It’s for your cold, for your …’ She suddenly looked very sad.

‘Very likely,’ I said. ‘You think I would drink any of your witches’ brews!’

Tilda moved away to the entrance and picked up the cup. She saluted me with it, held my eyes with hers and took a large sip. I saw her swallow the mouthful down.

‘It’s good for you, Alan. Drink it up – and be well.’

Then she walked out of the stall.

I stared at the cup for a long, long time. It seemed to be challenging me. Am I a fool? I thought. Am I once again making a fool of myself over this damn woman?

I picked up the cup, sniffed it. It held the smell of high summer, of meadow flowers, bees and warm sunshine. It smelled of happiness.

‘Are you afraid?’ the voice in my head asked. I knew that I was. So I put the warm cup to my lips and drank the whole measure in one swallow.

I
slept like a dead man and awoke mid-morning, thick-headed but very much alive. Whatever Tilda had put in the drink, it was a powerful cure for while I snuffled and sneezed that day and the next, I could feel my cold waning.

I washed my face and hands and combed my hair. I shared a beaker of ale and a slice of buttered bread with Robert and half-listened to his news of some disturbance in the baggage lines during the night. But I paid scant attention to his chatter, then, for my mind was on other things. I ruffled my son’s hair in farewell and went in search of Robin.

I had an apology to make.

I found my lord in the great hall of Rockingham in the midst of a storm of royal displeasure.

‘I want the wagon guards hanged for their negligence, every man jack of them,’ the King was saying as I slid in to the hall. ‘Hang them all – at once.’

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ said Savary de Mauléon, not quite under his breath.

‘You have something to say to me, Mauléon?’ said the King.

‘Sire, I
do. We do not have enough men to start hanging every poor fellow who is bested in a skirmish. The guards resisted the marauders as best they could and then retreated in order to save their own lives. There were hundreds of Scotsmen, the captain tells me, and it was dark and they were masked like fiends and howling like the savages they are. The guards came straight here for reinforcements, and my men were able to drive the enemy away before they could make off with more than a wagon or two and some of the packhorses, a few sacks of grain.’

‘They failed in their duty to their King,’ John said. ‘They must be punished.’

‘Sire, perhaps we could discuss the order of march to Lincoln,’ said Robin.

‘We’ll discuss your grand plans for Lincoln, Locksley, when we have settled this matter.’

‘Hang a few guards if you wish to, Sire,’ said Robin cheerfully. ‘But consider what that will do to the morale of the rest of the army. Will that make it more likely or less likely that undecided men will come to your banner?’

The King glared at my lord. Robin had made the exact same argument to John that Savary de Mauléon had made after Rochester. The argument that had saved his – and my – life. I saw Mauléon, behind the King’s back, grinning openly at Robin.

‘Well, what do you suggest that we do, Locksley? You who think you have all the answers. Tell me. And this had better be good.’

‘I think you should appoint a Master of the Royal Baggage. Someone senior, a man of high rank, and make it his sworn duty to defend the wagons, the stores and the royal treasury with his own men. He would be responsible for their safety and answerable only to you. If he fails in his duty, you could hang him, if you like.’

John looked at Robin. There was a sly gleam in his eye.

‘Someone senior, you say. A nobleman of high rank?’ The King chuckled. ‘Very
well – I hereby appoint you, Robert of Locksley, Master of the Royal Baggage. You and your men will defend our wagon train to the last man. And it will be your life that is forfeit if so much as a silver thimble is stolen while you hold that position. What say you to that!’

Robin appeared aghast. ‘Sire, ah, Sire …’ he stuttered. ‘You do me too much honour. But surely another man—’

‘I may indeed be doing you too much honour but you will accept this task and you will protect my goods and chattels with utmost care and diligence – or it truly will be your head in the noose, mark my words.’

‘As you command, Sire,’ said Robin, bowing low.

‘Now, to the monks of Crowland Abbey – they have defied me long enough. I want their lands ravaged, I want their villages, mills, storehouses and barns burned to the ground. I want the wealth of that fat lump, Abbot Henry de Longchamp, in my coffers and him on his knees before me begging for my mercy.

‘Sire, it is a much-revered House of God,’ said Robin. ‘The monks of Crowland are well known for their care of the sick and generosity to the poor and needy—’

‘I don’t want to hear another word out of you today, Locksley – Mauléon, this is your task. Get your men to Crowland and bring me their wealth. Immediately, today.’

Savary de Mauléon opened his mouth to speak.

‘No,’ shouted the King. ‘I don’t want to hear it. You have your orders. Go! Get you to Crowland, sir.’

The Poitevin lord’s face was a picture of frustrated fury. But he uttered not a word, merely bowed to the King and stalked out of the hall.

‘Shall we discuss the order of march to Lincoln, Sire,’ said Robin quietly when Mauléon had gone.

‘Oh, you organise it, Locksley. I am too fatigued to wrangle with you any more. I’m sure you have it all planned out anyway. We ride tomorrow
at dawn. Just do not forget your new honour, eh? I meant what I said about your head in a noose. You will guard that baggage train with your life. Understand? You may leave me now.’