The Death of Robin Hood (15 page)

‘One of d’Aubigny’s men-at-arms. Stomach wound,’ said Robin.

‘Poor bastard,’ I said.

‘I don’t know why his comrades do not end his pain. He’s a dead man anyway with that kind of wound. Deep puncture to the lower belly. It’s always the same. It will turn bad and, after five or six days of the most appalling agony, he will surely die. Better to end it now.’

‘I wonder where Miles is,’ I said to change the subject.

‘London, with luck,’ said Robin.

‘If I know him, he’s sitting in some cosy tavern by the docks, drunk as a bishop, with a pretty wench on each knee, both vying for his kisses.’

Robin smiled. ‘Like enough.’

‘I hope Robert is safe,’ I said.

‘He will be. Hugh will hold out at Kirkton. He’s too stubborn to give in. And even if he were to be forced out somehow, he could find
shelter with our friends in Sherwood. Besides, the King is here and while he is gracing us with his presence he cannot be making war on our folk in the north.’

I prayed it was true. If I was to die, at least I could hope my son would be safe.

The man next door screamed once more, a haunting wolf-like howl that seemed to last for an eternity. Then, suddenly, it was muffled, then stopped as if by a wad of cloth or thick blanket held tightly over his mouth.

‘I can’t complain,’ said Robin. ‘I have had a good life, I think. We have had some adventures, you and I, Alan. If the King plays us false, and these truly are our last hours, at least I have two strong sons to live on after me. And you have Robert, to carry your name. That is all that matters, really. That is what I have fought for these past ten years, for Marie-Anne, for my sons, for their future in this land. That is what the charter is all about – for me, anyway. That they might live in a country free from the tyranny of evil kings.’

I looked at Robin then. I had never seen him so close to despair.

‘You think this is it, that this is the end?’ I said.

‘What do you think?’

‘I always remember what Little John once said before that terrible battle at Bouvines. He said, “Live, Alan, live like a man until you die!”’

‘As he did.’

‘Yes. As he did.’

‘I miss him,’ said Robin. ‘Although I should not like to see him in the mire we’re in now. He was right, too. We’re not dead yet, old friend, so let us live. And I think … I think I would like to sing if this is indeed to be our last day on earth.’

Robin raised his voice. ‘Who here knows “The Thrush and the Honey-Bee”? Come on, surely you all remember it?’

And my lord began to sing. He had a fine voice and it echoed most pleasingly
off the walls. That is how we spent the rest of that long, long day: sitting on the cold floor of that side chapel in Rochester Cathedral singing the old songs of England, with me pitching in as best I might over the pain of my leg and the archers joining in the choruses with a surprising and even sometimes tuneful vigour.

We never heard another peep from the stomach-wounded man in the next bay. Praise God.

At sunrise, we were fed again and a barber-surgeon came round asking if any man required his attention. He was a grubby fellow, his clothes stained with blood and slime, and he reeked of ale and armpits. He had a string of dirty yellow molars hanging around his neck, a sign of his other trade as a tooth-puller.

I declined his attentions: Mastin, who had doctored many a wounded man in his time, had set my leg well and I did not want this wretch pawing at his handiwork.

Shortly before noon, they came to bind us. It came as no surprise. For all morning we had heard the work of hammers and saws, and the whisper came round that a wide platform was being built in front of the cathedral. I said nothing but I could not forget d’Aubigny’s tale of the men, women and children whose hands and feet had been lopped on another such platform at the beginning of the siege.

When our hands were all bound with rough ropes, we were herded into the nave, more than a hundred men. I hopped along, my roped arms looped over Thomas’s shoulder and using his tough frame as a crutch. I saw d’Aubigny a dozen yards away and it was evident that he had been beaten for he limped and his face was a mass of cuts and contusions. He would not meet my eye. Before the sacred altar was a knot of noblemen in bright, clean clothes, silks and satins, velvet and furs – the King’s courtiers – jewellery glittering at their necks and their fingers were thick with gold rings. And lolling in the archbishop’s chair in the middle of them, shorter than
the other men, but even more splendidly dressed, was the King himself. He was joking with a tall, grey-bearded man-at-arms, the only unbound person of rank there who looked like he might have actually fought in the battle that had humbled the castle, a man whom I recognised as the renowned French knight Savary de Mauléon, Viscount of Thouars.

He had been a loyal vassal of Arthur, Duke of Brittany, who was captured with Mauléon at the battle of Mirebeau – a victory for King John that was almost entirely Robin’s doing. John had taken Mauléon prisoner and thrown him into the dungeon at Corfe Castle, his fearsome stronghold by the sea in Dorset. But, for some reason, John had decided to pardon the man – and had accepted his homage – and now he was one of the King’s greatest commanders. I had not known that Mauléon was opposing us at the siege – but I supposed it made little difference now.

The King was in high spirits, his blue eyes glinting like wet glass. He was a goodly age then – at forty-nine, just a year younger than Robin – and his once-russet hair was thinning and grey, his face pouchy and lined. Despite these signs of age, he seemed animated by a much younger spirit as if through some devilry his younger carefree self was still inhabiting his ageing body.

‘Ah-ha, d’Aubigny,’ he said, catching sight of our bruised commander. ‘There you are! You look like you’ve been in the wars! Oh, ha-ha-ha!’

His voice sounded like the croaking of an evil frog yet the dazzling courtiers around the King exploded with mirth, clapping each other on the shoulder, pretending to weep for the exquisite joy of the royal jest – all except Mauléon, who gazed up at the cathedral’s high arched ceiling as if seeking strength from the Almighty.

To this deeply stupid remark d’Aubigny merely gave a gruff ‘Sire’ and a nod of the head.

‘And there’s the Earl of Locksley – the infamous outlaw, as was. The notorious
Robin Hood that the villeins all sing of in the taverns. Well, no more an outlaw, no more a rebel, we have tamed you! And is that your man Sir Alan Dale? It is, by God’s bones, the man who tried to cut my head off with a hidden little knife at St Paul’s! Well, it’s his head on the block now. Ha-ha-ha!’

And so on. The King went on to name and mock a dozen other knights, making asinine jests at the expense of each one in turn. It seemed hardly a man there had not sparked the King’s ire at one time or another – and John had not forgotten a single slight, the smallest insult, nor the most inconsequential debt.

After a while even the King seemed to grow bored of his childish game. He croaked, ‘Quiet!’ at the giggling courtiers and frowned at the crowd of bound and bloodied rebels standing before him.

‘You all defied me,’ he said sternly, when the sycophantic laughter had petered out. ‘You all swore to be my loyal men and then you raised the bloody flag of rebellion and challenged me in one of my own castles!’ He sounded incredulous at this accusation, as if no fighting man had ever taken up arms against a king before.

‘Time and again, I have shown forbearance in the face of your outrageous contumacy, I have shown compassion, I have shown infinite kindness …’

I very soon became bored with this mummery – there could be no good end to the King’s speech, none at all – and I began to look about me. The walls of the cathedral were lined with knights and men-at-arms. I wondered briefly if I could slip my bonds and seize a weapon. It was no use. I couldn’t walk a step unaided on my broken leg.

The King was still speaking: ‘… I promised you mercy and you shall indeed receive mercy at my hands.’

He paused and every man in the cathedral held his breath and waited for the judgement.

‘Every man-at-arms of common stock, every villainous archer, every ignoble servant of a noble knight, every peasant spearman, even the
very meanest churl … shall be released immediately.’ The King was smiling like a cream-fed cat, play-acting the munificent monarch.

‘They shall be set free this hour, henceforth to serve whomsoever they shall choose.’

I was utterly surprised, to be honest. This was indeed mercy. Generosity, even. It was the very last thing I had expected from John. The Flemish men-at-arms were moving into the crowd, picking out the common soldiers and herding them towards the rear of the cathedral. I saw Mastin being dragged away by two spearmen and heard him say, ‘Get your dirty paws off me, you goat-fuckers!’ before being silenced with a buffet to the face.

Robin called out: ‘Get our men back to Kirkton, Mastin, tell Hugh of our fate. Tell Marie-Anne that—’

But Mastin was being hustled down the aisle and was almost out of earshot. A muffled cry of ‘Don’t you worry, sir, I’ll fucking tell ’em,’ came back towards us.

When all the men of common stock, as the King put it, had been cleared from the cathedral, only the knights and noblemen remained. They were a shuffling, murmuring crowd, craning their necks towards John expectantly, with new hope shining in their eyes.

The King called for silence.

‘The rest of you, you men who claim noble blood, who glory in your valour, your titles and your ancient names, all you who hold lands in my realm …’

The whole cathedral was as silent as an empty tomb. I shifted my weight on Thomas’s shoulder. My leg was burning as if it had been dipped into the flames of Hell.

‘You men,’ the King croaked, ‘shall be taken from this House of God, out into the good light of day, and there you shall be hanged by the neck until you are dead like the rebellious scum you are. It shall be a lesson to all who dare oppose me.’

The cathedral
erupted into uproar, every man shouting, some wrestling with their bound hands, others calling unto God, and I realised I was yelling out to the King: ‘You swore we would receive mercy, you traitorous bastard, that was the condition of our surrender. Mercy, you said, you black-hearted devil—’

‘Quiet!’ bellowed the King. ‘I will have quiet. Be still there, you scum.’

Some Flemish knights around the walls were drawing swords. Others were beating the nearest prisoners into silence. Eventually some order was restored.

‘I did indeed promise you mercy. And you have received it. You’ve been mercifully fed, your wounds mercifully tended to, your men-at-arms’ lives have been mercifully spared. Now you will receive the mercy of a swift death. Take them away!’

Joyous
news! The King has come to Newstead Priory. His Royal Highness Henry of Winchester graciously agreed to pay our humble priory a short visit. We knew for some days that Henry was in residence at his palace at Clipstone, not eight miles north of us, an hour’s ride. He had been taking his ease there after the trials of his ill-starred campaign in Poitou, feasting his friends and hunting the fat red deer of Sherwood. However, we received a message only yesterday from Lord Westbury – the only grandson of Brother Alan, and one of the King’s closest advisers – informing us that the King would pay a private visit to our small House of God and that he wished to speak with Brother Alan on a matter of some import.

I praise God that we have been so honoured: the King is a pious man and has made munificent gifts of silver and lands to other Houses. Perhaps, perhaps … but it would not be right to pray for His Highness to show his royal generosity to us. We must be grateful that he has taken notice of this small and remote community, and allowed the light of his countenance to shine upon us. Nevertheless, the whole priory has been a storm of excited activity – we are far too poor to offer dinner to our good King and all his multitude of lords and servants –
it would beggar us to give every man a morsel, but there must be something to offer and the monks have been all in a frenzy, baking sweet pastries, unwrapping cheeses and bringing up the best barrels of wine so that if the King himself expressed hunger or thirst we would be able to assuage it swiftly. It would not do to shame ourselves and our House before royalty!

I told Brother Alan that he must prepare himself for the visit and rise, wash and dress himself, so that he could be presented in a respectable manner in the chapter house. The visit seems to have put heart into the old man. When I came for him last night, he nodded and began to struggle out of his blankets. ‘Been a while,’ he muttered as I wrapped him in a thick woollen robe and led him towards the wash house. Then he said something rather strange: ‘I hope the blessed boy doesn’t expect me to sing again.’

I do not know what Brother Alan meant by that but then sometimes his mind wanders and he believes himself to be in another time and place. I thank God for it, otherwise I would not have the pleasure of hearing and recording his tales of his younger self. And while his mind might sometimes be foggy in this present moment, his clarity of the past is remarkable.

We all turned out in the courtyard – the monks, the servants, almost every man of Newstead – to welcome the King this morning. And while I was awed to be in the presence of royalty for the first time, I was also silently counting heads to see if we would have enough food and wine for everyone in his retinue. Twenty-seven. A manageable number, praise God.

The King himself was a man of medium height, but thick-chested and with powerful arms. He wore a surcoat of red and gold, and a simple coronet made of a thick band of gold set with rubies. His face was open and pleasant, and seemed to shine with happiness and good humour, save for his left eye, which appeared to droop a little lower than the right, giving him a sleepy expression. We greeted him with a prayer for his health and then four of the monks sang an anthem, composed for
the occasion, which lauded his nobility, his piety and the justice that he brought the land. The King seemed much moved by it and when it was over I thought I saw the glint of genuine tears in his eyes.