Holy Warrior (29 page)

As usual, there was an easy way to mollify the proud French king. Richard sent him a gift of ten thousand marks in gold when his betrothal to Berengaria was publically announced, and our King had the good sense not to publically flaunt the fact that his bride-to-be, accompanied by his mother, Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, was en route to Sicily.

However, Philip had still grumpily declared his intention to leave with all his troops for the Holy Land at the end of March so that he would not be present when this affront to his sister’s honour arrived in Messina.

King Philip of France and four great ships sailed slowly out of Messina harbour on the last day of the month, to the cheers of Richard’s entire army, which had been assembled by direct order of the King to wish their brother warriors of Christ a fair voyage to Outremer. The next day a small but richly appointed ship arrived, discreetly bearing Princess Berengaria of Navarre, Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine - and my old friend and erstwhile musical mentor Bernard de Sezanne.

I had not seen Bernard for a year and a half, and while I had grown taller and filled out my frame, he had not changed in the slightest except that, as Queen Eleanor’s much admired trouvere, he was far more richly dressed than when he had been my musical teacher in our outlaw days. In fact, he was something of a popinjay in crimson and green hose and a crimson and gold embroidered tunic. He wore a magnificent velvet hat that looked like a large loaf of Sicilian bread with a long sweeping feather that arced out of the side. Beside him in my drab brownish-green tunic and hose, and travel-worn grey hood, I felt dowdy and pedestrian.

I took him to The Lamb, the tavern in Messina where I regularly met with the other
trouvères.
Having delivered Berengaria safely, Bernard and his mistress Queen Eleanor were leaving Sicily in a day or two to return to England, and I wanted a chance to talk to him before they left. The tavern provided the two things I knew that Bernard would require for a successful evening: large quantities of wine and a musically appreciative company. Little John was on duty with Robin and so I was at liberty. Bernard and I got to the tavern early; the sun had not yet sunk below the mountains of the west, so I could be sure of some time alone with my friend before the rest of the pack of musicians arrived.

‘Well, young Alan,’ said Bernard, smiling kindly, ‘you look more like a rough soldier every time I see you. I hope you have not given up the musical life.’ He was looking at the sword and long poniard that hung habitually from two thick leather belts at my waist. I assured him that I had not, and I could not help but boast a little about my popularity with King Richard, and his respect for me as a singer. ‘So does life in this great swarm of would-be martyrs suit you?’ he asked. I allowed that it did, and told him of my new-found prowess with the lance; I was in the middle of a tale of heroic success at charging the quintain when I noticed that his eyes had become dull and glazed, and swiftly ended the story, ordered more wine and changed the subject. ‘And how are things in England?’ I asked.

‘They are not good, Alan, to be honest, not good at all,’ he said, and sighed. His demeanor was sad but I sensed something; perhaps a small amount of joy at being able to deliver bad news. ‘The country is deeply uneasy with Richard away; each baron is fortifying his castle, the towns are building strong walls. The Welsh are making trouble, too. But the main problem is that little Willie Longchamp, the King’s Justiciar, is loathed by absolutely everybody and he can’t seem to control his own household, let alone the country. He is an awful little man - no music in him at all - but Richard did make him Justiciar and you would think he would therefore be able to command some respect; but it is seems not and his authority is now being seriously challenged by - guess who? - Richard’s royal, if not loyal, brother John.

‘Our stay-at-home princeling now swanks about the land in a quite preposterous regal style, with his own justicar, his own royal court, a chancellor, royal seals, everything - and his servants talk openly about John being the next king, if Richard were to die while on this pilgrimage. It’s quite ridiculous when everybody knows that little Prince Arthur is Richard’s acknowledged heir. It’s not good, Alan, with the King out of the country, there’s no one to keep these ambitious little toads in line ...’ and he broke into a line of poetry:

‘As the earth grows dark when the sun departs,
So a kingdom is diminished by the absence of its king.’

He took a long swig of wine and wiped his mouth on his gorgeous crimson sleeve. ‘And I have worse news,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘I went to see the Countess of Locksley to pick up a letter she wanted me to give to Robin, and I found her in a terrible way. Oh, she’s fine in her health and looks, and she keeps up a noble front, but she’s very unhappy.’

He paused and I realised that he had been waiting to deliver this piece of bad news since he met me at the harbour side.

‘Go on,’ I said neutrally.

‘Well, there are these dreadful rumours about her, which are being spread by that snake Ralph Murdac, appalling rumours, the worst kind, and totally untrue, of course, but they worry her and she fears they will reach Robin’s ears.’ He was only just managing to conceal his glee at having such a delicious piece of gossip to impart.

I leaned into him, frowning: ‘What rumours,’ I said. I could feel myself growing angry. ‘What rumours, Bernard?’ I said louder in a hard tone of voice. Bernard looked at me. ‘Don’t get upset with me, Alan, I’m just the messenger, I’m not the one spreading them; I haven’t told a soul. But people
are
talking.’

I managed to control my temper. I was very fond of Marie-Anne, the Countess of Locksley; I had even believed myself to be in love with her for a while, and I did not like to have her name sullied by anyone. ‘What are they saying?’ I asked, trying for a more reasonable tone of voice. Bernard was Bernard, after all, my anger would not change him.

‘Well, don’t get upset, and don’t say you heard it from me, but people are saying that...’ he faltered for a few moments. But I said flatly: ‘Just tell me, Bernard.’ And finally, after much wriggling and prevarication, he did.

‘They are saying, Alan, and I am sure it is totally untrue, that the Countess was the lover of Ralph Murdac in the summer before last, and that the Countess’s son, Hugh, who is acknowledged as the Earl of Locksley’s heir, is actually Murdac’s flesh and blood.’ He sat back, having delivered this hammer blow, and watched for my reaction.

I hope I disappointed him: I held my face blank, took a sip of wine and a deep breath. ‘What a stupid notion,’ I said dismissively. ‘Marie-Anne Locksley was Ralph Murdac’s lover? Absurd.’ And I attempted a light chuckle. It came out like a donkey braying in pain.

I was spared from having to develop this rebuttal by the arrival of Ambroise and a couple of the other
trouvères.
I just had time to whisper savagely to Bernard that he must hold his tongue about this matter - he would not, of course - before we were swept up in the whirlwind of vinous merrymaking that always surrounded Ambroise and his friends. While Bernard and the jolly Norman butterball were introducing themselves, swapping bawdy jokes and ordering up more wine - it took less than a quarter of an hour for them to become bosom friends, by the way - I was thinking about my beautiful friend, and Robin’s beloved girl, Marie-Anne, the gossip-smirched Countess of Locksley. I had a big problem: despite my play-acting with Bernard, I knew that the kernel of these foul rumours - that Robin’s son was in fact Murdac’s - was true. And this truth could destroy us all.

Chapter Twelve

I understand, now that I have had children, why blood is so important. When my son Rob died, I felt that quite literally a part of me had passed on as well. My wife and I had raised him with love and care and we had poured all our hopes and dreams in to him. If he had been the son of another man, would I have loved him so much, or felt his death quite so keenly? Perhaps so. But I doubt I would have felt so powerfully that he
was
me, in some strange way, and that his death was my death. Then, of course, in the spring of the Year of Our Lord 1191, when I realised that Marie-Anne’s child Hugh was not Robin’s son, my first thought was for the shame that Robin must feel. It was bad enough that his wife had been bedded by Sir Ralph Murdac, that in itself would have given cause for many men to disown their wives - that it must have been rape made no difference - but for her to have been impregnated by another man, and a mortal enemy at that, was almost too shameful to contemplate.

There were several reasons why I knew that Hugh must truly be Murdac’s son, and why I knew that Robin knew this too. Firstly, I had noticed the signs of a forced coupling on Marie-Anne’s clothing - her dress was torn and bloody - when Robin, Reuben and I had rescued her from Murdac’s grasp in Nottingham Castle nearly two years ago. Ralph Murdac had captured her, after the death of King Henry but before Richard had returned to England and taken a firm grip on the throne. Murdac had been hoping, no doubt, to use her as a bargaining tool and as a way of putting pressure on Robin. Secondly, when Robin had killed her captors, he had taken her into his arms and asked if she were hurt; he was in truth asking whether Murdac had dishonoured her. I remember her answer clearly, she did not say, ‘I am unharmed,’ or ‘I have not been hurt,’ but only, ‘All is well now that you are here.’ I am sure that if she had been untouched by Murdac she would have said so. The third reason why I knew the child was Murdac’s was the colouring of baby Hugh: black hair and pale blue eyes. Despite what Goody had told me about babies changing their looks after birth, it seemed too much of a coincidence that, of all the people in Christendom, the baby should resemble Sir Ralph Murdac so closely. And anyway, the wise women say that immediately after birth, a baby resembles its father, and then later it takes on more of the look of the mother. The fourth point was the previously inexplicable disharmony between Robin and Marie-Anne immediately after the birth. Robin knew the child was not his - and it was my sacred duty to make sure that the rumour was squashed and that my master never found out that I was aware of his ignoble secret.

But, quite apart from Bernard’s loose tongue - and Robin would quite readily tear it from his head if he found out that my friend had been spreading this news - Murdac’s whisperers would be doing their work in England and there was a real danger that, when Robin returned, he would be a laughing stock. People would assume that he wore the horns of a cuckold, even though the truth was that Marie-Anne had been forced against her will by a monster. Robin would never admit that; he would never admit that he had been unable to protect the woman he loved. And how would this sad business affect the relations between husband and wife? If it became common knowledge, would Robin disinherit Hugh, throw him out of the family? And how would Marie-Anne feel about her baby being a universally known as a bastard, a child of rape, a nobody born out of wedlock. She would never admit the truth of that. But could Robin accept a cuckoo in the nest?

As I sat pondering these terrible truths, the party in the tavern was becoming raucous: Ambroise and Bernard were swapping couplets of dirty poetry with each other with great relish, and downing full cups of unwatered wine, and one of the other
trouvères
was already dancing with one of the Sicilian serving women. Leaving them to their revels, I slipped away to find my master.

I found Robin in his chamber in the monastery, reading the letter from Marie-Anne. His face was a cold, emotionless mask and as I entered the room on the pretext of bringing him his evening meal, he gave be a look of such blank metallic savagery that I almost lost my nerve and retreated.

‘Your supper, sir,’ I said quietly. And he merely indicated that I should put it on the table with a wave of his hand. I tore off a piece of the roast chicken with my fingers and took it over to Keelie, who had been watching my movements with great interest from a rush basket in the corner of the room.

‘Good news from England, sir?’ I asked disingenuously, crouched with my back to Robin, as the one-eyed dog licked the chicken gravy from my hand.

‘No,’ said Robin. And that flat single syllable sounded like a tombstone being dropped on to the grass of a churchyard cemetery. I turned to look at the Earl of Locksley; the letter was lying on the table next to his supper, but he was staring at the stone floor, seemingly in some sort of trance. For ten heartbeats we did not move; I stared at him, he stared at the floor. Then he dragged his gaze up to meet mine and said: ‘It seems your friend Prince John is causing trouble; wants to be King, I hear,’ he attempted a smile, but it never reached his grey eyes. I wanted to say something, to comfort him to tell him that it was all right, that it was not his fault that Murdac had ruined him, that it was not Marie-Anne’s fault either. But the gulf between lord and vassal was too wide. ‘Would you mind leaving me, Alan,’ said Robin. He sounded unbearably weary. ‘And tell the men that we will be departing in a week or so for Outremer and so they should prepare themselves. And tell Little John ... oh, never mind, I’ll tell him in the morning. Good night.’ As I left, I saw him pick up the letter again and stare sightlessly at the thick vellum pages. I noticed that his hand was trembling slightly.

We left Messina ten days later: seventeen thousand five hundred soldiers and sailors of Richard’s grand army crammed into two hundred ships. Mategriffon had been carefully dismantled, piece by piece, and stored in one of the larger busses; the great destriers of the knights, held safely by two stout belly straps, had been lifted and swung out over the harbour by great cranes and lowered into their places in the larger transport vessels; and Berengaria of Navarre, accompanied by Richard’s sister Joanna, had been packed into a sumptuous but weatherly cog with all the comforts a mighty king could provide. With these noble ladies traveled one Arab slave girl, now a lady’s maid to Princess Berengaria, and to my mind a woman of such perfect beauty that she outshone any mortal woman alive. I had arranged Nur’s new position with Robin’s help, and a small gift of silver to Berengaria’s chamberlain, and I had never seen her so happy. ‘Alan,’ she said in her halting French as she kissed me on the dock, ‘you are a wonderful man, my saviour, my preux chevalier, and to reward you for being so kind and good, we shall do that thing again that you like so much, you know, with the leather belts and the honey ...’ I shushed her hurriedly and looked around the harbour, hoping that nobody had heard. Two yards behind me stood Little John who was organising the embarkation of our cavalry. He looked as if he had not heard a thing and I breathed a sigh of relief: too soon, of course. The moment Nur had left me to get into a skiff, he came a little closer: ‘Tell me Alan, what is the thing you like to do with the belts and the honey?’ he asked in a low, confidential tone.