The Death of Robin Hood (19 page)

‘I won’t do it,’ I said. ‘I will not swear to serve him.’

‘Just hear me out,’ said my lord. We were in our chamber in the east tower of Corfe, an hour after noon, and the crumbs of a rather splendid
dinner were scattered on the table before us. Thomas was still chewing on a thick slice of apple pie emblazoned with a dollop of yellow Dorset cream. Below us in the great hall the King was feasting his knights.

‘Fitzwalter has invited Prince Louis in,’ Robin said. ‘You know what that means – a French king sitting on the throne of England; French lords in all the high positions in the land, a huge French army right here, ready and willing to stamp out any opposition to Louis’s rule. All English landholders will eventually be squeezed out, they have to be; Louis must reward the French knights who support him with lands in England, indeed he has already promised to do so. He cannot make land; he must take it from Englishmen and give it to his followers. It truly will be the Conquest all over again. Do you want that?’

I stayed mulishly silent.

‘Believe me, Alan, I do not trust John any more than you do. But we follow him or we join the French. And after all these years of struggle against them, all the good men who died, that I could not easily stomach. Little John was killed by the French; old Claes, too, and your squire Kit. Remember? And consider this: if the French were to win, how long do you think I would survive as Earl of Locksley? The French will begin to remove the English lords the moment Louis is the supreme power in the land. I wouldn’t last a year. A Frenchman will rule my lands from Kirkton. I’d be executed or exiled, my sons disinherited. And as my loyal vassal, you would lose Westbury. Do you want that?’

‘Why do we have to pick a side? They are both as bad as each other.’

‘Think it through, Alan. If we are not players on this chessboard, we lose whoever ultimately wins the game. If I were to refuse to give my fealty to King John, we would be kept here at Corfe for years, perhaps until we died, and not in these snug apartments, back in that bloody dungeon. Or if I were to swear fealty, accept my freedom,
then turn my coat and return to the rebels, neither side would trust me again. I’d surely lose all, whichever side wins. This is the least worst option, believe me.’

His logic was faultless.

‘What say you, Thomas?’ Robin said.

‘I say you are my lord and I serve whomever you serve,’ said the knight, in a strange dead tone. ‘Your King is my King, your enemies are mine.’ Thomas paused, then said, ‘As I hope mine are yours.’

‘Of course they are, Thomas,’ said Robin jovially. ‘Of course they are.’ He looked at me. ‘The King is not asking for you to swear fealty, Alan, he asks only for mine. All you have to do is remain loyal to me. Like good Sir Thomas here. Can you do that?’

All I could manage was a surly grunt of assent.

I kept my mouth shut later that afternoon as I watched the Earl of Locksley kneel before John in the great hall of Corfe, place his hands between the King’s and vow before a God that neither believed in henceforth to be his man.

The King said little too, except for the ritual words, but as Robin got to his feet, he said, loudly enough for all to hear: ‘You may think this is absolution for your crimes, Locksley; it is not. I know you and your tricks, and if you play me false I shall have no compunction at all about hanging you and all your men from the nearest oak tree. My soft-hearted friend Savary de Mauléon will not baulk me again. You have not yet earned my forgiveness, but if you labour tirelessly in my service, if you fight hard, if you help me defeat these rebellious dogs and this ridiculous French usurper, then I may reconsider.’

‘I have sworn to be faithful to you and your line for ever,’ said my lord coolly. ‘You shall not find me wanting in my service.’

The next day, I collected my few possessions and bade a tearful farewell to Prince Harry and most of the prisoners, including William d’Aubigny, who had staunchly refused to renew their fealty to
the King. Then Thomas, Robin and I rode from Corfe Castle as free men. With a fresh April wind in my face and a bitter, hollow feeling beneath my ribs, I pointed my horse’s head north, to Nottinghamshire, to Westbury.

The King had reluctantly granted us a few weeks of liberty. Restored to his grudging grace and favour, Robin had sent riders to Kirkton to spread the tidings of his new allegiance – which we hoped would alleviate the danger of an attack on his lands from the Sheriff of Yorkshire – and we planned to gather men, arms and supplies and rejoin our sovereign lord at a muster of arms at Tonbridge at the beginning of May. We were King’s men once more. And the battle for England was about to begin.

We took our time on the roads northwards, a full week. I had not ridden a horse for six months and the muscles in my newly mended leg protested at this strange activity. We also enjoyed the feeling of freedom that the journey gave us. Three well-armed, well-mounted men had little to fear from brigands, and we stopped frequently along the way to eat and drink and rest, mainly at houses of God: Sherborne Abbey the first night, then Bath cathedral, followed by Gloucester, Worcester, Lichfield and Derby.

On the road, Sir Thomas Blood was unusually quiet, even for a taciturn man such as he, hardly speaking sometimes for hours, even whole days at a time. He brooded and scowled, looking as grim as the lands we passed through, for the scars of war were apparent wherever we looked – every mile or so we came across a burned-out barn or an abandoned village, blackened and silent. Unmilked cows roared their discomfort in the fields. The trees at the side of the road were quite often adorned with the naked dangling corpses of hanged men. This was the work of the Flemings, bringing the King’s brutal justice to the land. This was the work of John, now our sovereign lord.

On the last night of our journey, in Darley Abbey, when Robin had claimed
the abbot’s finest hospitality as a loyal lieutenant of the King, I grew tired of Thomas’s taciturnity and asked my friend quite sharply if anything were amiss. He would not speak at first but when pressed, and told he was acting like a spoiled child, he took me to a quiet corner of the refectory where we could talk undisturbed.

‘You have served Robin longer than I, Alan,’ he said. We were sitting at a broad oak table, two large untouched mugs of strong local ale before us. ‘You think he’s a man of his word? A man of honour?’

I protested that of course he was.

‘Yes, you would say that. He can do no wrong in your eyes. For you he walks on water.’

Thomas reached for his mug, put it to his lips and, in a series of huge gulps, swallowed the entire contents, a good pint. I tilted my head, looking at him closely. So what, I thought, sometimes a man needs a drink. But I knew it was more than that. Thomas appeared coldly furious – with me and with our lord. Like a black and heavy thunder-cloud about to crack out a bolt of lightning.

‘What is the matter, Thomas? Tell me – what is making you behave this way?’

‘I have just seen the Earl of Locksley abandon his cause, a righteous cause to my eyes, and swear meekly to serve a monstrous King … and for why? For no better reason than expediency. He took the oath of fealty to John so that he might keep his lands, and for that reason only. I ask myself, what is his code? Where is his honour? Is there anything he would not do to further his own interests? Is there anything, or anyone, he would not sacrifice to keep his title as Earl of Locksley and the lands that come with it? And, on contemplation, I answer my own question. No.’

I sat back, slightly shocked by Thomas’s words. But I had to think hard before I answered for there was a good deal of truth in his bitterness. Yet it was also true that Robin’s honour was invested in
his wife, his family and the folk who served him. He had done terrible things in his time, for money, for mischief and for revenge, cruel things, evil things, but he had always cleaved to this principle; he had never harmed anyone who was loyal to him, indeed he had often put his own life in grave danger to save them from harm. Surely Thomas must recognise this.

‘What is troubling you, my friend? Tell me – I swear I shall not speak of it, if that is your wish, to any man, even Robin.’

Thomas reached over and grasped my mug of ale without a by your leave. Once again he drank it down in a series of long swallows and replaced the empty cup on the oak with a thump. The drink seemed to loosen his tongue.

‘It’s that bloody Templar,’ he said finally. ‘Aymeric de St Maur, the high and mighty lord of the English Temple, perhaps the most powerful man in the land after the King, who rides all the way to Corfe Castle in the rain, if you believe Robin, just to give us some tattle-tale about the state of the war. Robin lied to us, Alan, about the words he had with the Templar. He lied. I know that. I think you do, too.’

It was my turn to shrug.

‘Robin lies. Yes, but what man does not? He keeps his secrets close. He always has. He cannot help it.’

Thomas said nothing.

I said: ‘So what do you think they really talked about?’

‘I think they talked about me. About Brother Geoffrey, the beast who defiled your boy. I believe the favour the Templar asked of Robin was that he deliver me up to their justice. I believe he means to betray me.’

Westbury was filled with people when I arrived the next morning. The manor had the air of market day, with folk bustling here and there, servants carrying piles of crockery and bedding, men-at-arms bearing stacks of weapons about the courtyard, and stray geese and sheep
bleating and honking and tripping up the unwary. Baldwin was at the door of the hall berating a serving girl over the shards of a smashed bowl, his finger wagging like a puppy dog’s tail. I stopped my horse at the open gates of the compound, sat a while and took it in.

I had finally convinced Thomas the evening before that Robin could not truly mean to betray him, that Robin simply would never do such a thing – but it took some doing. I stressed again and again that Robin’s personal code would not allow him to give up one of his closest men to torture and death at the hands of the Templars, whatever boon he had promised them, and then I pointed out that Thomas could do little about it anyway, even if his fears did come to pass. What could he do? Run away and become a masterless man living wild in the forests? No longer a knight, hardly better than a vagabond. What would happen to his manor of Makeney? His wife and baby? Thomas accepted my arguments and my repeated promise that I would not speak to Robin about this matter and that I would never allow harm to come to him as a result of his actions on behalf of my son’s honour.

The next morning he and Robin had ridden on northwards towards Kirkton and I had headed east, to find this scene of pleasing muddle in my courtyard. I was relishing the thought of a few days at my own hearth, when, like a basin of freezing water being dashed into my face, I saw that something was seriously amiss. It took a moment to understand what it was.

The tower was gone. In its place in the corner of the courtyard there was now no more than a shoulder-high pile of blackened rubble. As I stared at it, I felt a sense of loss, almost grief, that took me aback me with its strength and intensity. The tower had been a symbol of legitimacy, my claim to a true membership at last of the knightly class, and now, like so many of my other hopes and dreams for the future, it lay in ruins.

Baldwin came bustling up to my horse, beaming with joy. ‘Sir Alan, welcome
home. I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you here at last.’

‘My tower,’ I said, my happiness at the homecoming draining away. ‘What in the name of God has happened to my keep?’

‘I am so sorry, sir,’ said Baldwin. ‘It seems that a large company of men-at-arms came from Nottingham, Sheriff Marc’s men, and using mules and ropes, pry-bars and picks, fire and water, they tore it down. We were all at Kirkton at the time – this place was quite undefended. We had received your orders to abandon Westbury and make for Yorkshire. I hope we were not wrong to do so, sir. And while we were away these sheriff’s men came here and did this. And we are not the only ones – unlicensed castration, I think they called it, something like that, and folk have had their walls, their storehouses, even their entire homes pulled down all across Nottinghamshire. I am sorry for it, sir. I feel I have failed you again.’

‘My tower is gone,’ I said stupidly, dismounting and blindly giving the horse’s reins into Baldwin’s hands.

‘Come into the hall, sir, and have a cup of wine. We only returned from Yorkshire yesterday and all is at sixes and sevens, but I believe we can find a cup of wine. Come into the hall and sit awhile, sir, I beg you.’

Another unpleasant shock awaited me there.

As I walked through the entrance, I glimpsed a figure of a woman – tall, slim, in a plain grey shift dress, with dark hair gathered under a white cap – carrying a wide bowl piled high with brown onions across the western side of the hall and out the little door that led to the kitchen block.

It was Matilda Giffard.

Once again I was shocked speechless. I had forbidden that woman my hall. I had given strict orders that she was not to be admitted. And the last time I had seen her she was a penniless outcast, camping by the river under a willow tree, forlorn and friendless on the
very edge of humanity. What on earth was she doing carrying food around my home as if she were a trusted servant or family member, instead of an avowed enemy of me and my son?

My son. He was sitting at the long table in the centre of the hall, reading a parchment scroll and eating an apple. He got to his feet when he saw me, called out ‘Father!’ joyfully, and came over to greet me. But even Robert was scarcely recognisable: he had shot up over the past six months and was tall now, as tall as me, but as thin as a wand and with a long hank of blond hair hanging over his left eye. My God, I thought, he is nearly a man – how old was he now? Still fifteen? Close on sixteen years, that was for sure.

I hugged my son and he led me to the table where Baldwin was fussing with earthenware cups and a jug of wine. I sat and accepted a drink: a cool white liquor that tasted of lemons and wild flowers. Robert was chattering away, telling me of his doings at Kirkton, how Hugh had allowed him to lead a company of mounted men-at-arms in their exercises – he was almost a captain of men, wasn’t that splendid? Then he was telling me about the tower and what a shame, but that we had got off lightly, considering; they might have burned the whole place to the ground. Terrible things had been happening all over the north while I was away. But perhaps, now that I was returned to royal favour, we might ask for permission to rebuild it, perhaps even make it taller. And what did I think about converting the palisade around the courtyard into a stone wall?