The Death of Robin Hood (30 page)

Henry’s man also gave us news of Dover: the siege fighting had intensified since our cavalry raid in the summer. Prince Louis himself had paid a visit in late July to urge on the French besiegers to greater efforts; and King Alexander of Scotland had marched from his homeland to Dover – almost entirely unmolested by King John’s troops. Eustace de Vesci, Alexander’s brother-in-law and one of
the senior rebel leaders, had been killed by a stray crossbow bolt at a skirmish at Barnard’s Castle in County Durham. But, by and large, the young King of the Scots had made it all the way to the south coast of England as if he were making a pleasant jaunt for a swim at the beach. And once Alexander got to Dover, he had paid homage to Prince Louis as one King to another. A most significant act, Robin assured me.

I said, rather wittily I thought, that you might say that England now held two Kings – or three if you counted Alexander. Ha-ha!

‘It might be a little unwise to say that aloud – or at least it will be unwise in a day or two, when we have reached our destination,’ said Robin. I took his point.

It took us a week to find King John. We rode cautiously – Robin and myself and nearly thirty men-at-arms and mounted archers – through the wastelands of central England. It was only on that journey that it truly came home to me just what a long civil war meant to the ordinary folk of England. As we passed through Harrow and St Albans, Woburn and Northampton, I was brutally reminded what a
chevauchée
did to the face of the land. Whole districts were black and smoking. Ripe standing crops, half a year’s sustenance for a village, had been ruthlessly put to the torch. Homes, storehouses, byres and barns, even churches ablaze. Men, women – children too – dead and rotting by the side of the roads. It was not the first time I had seen such devastation – and I had played a full and shameful part in similar destructive expeditions. But the burned-out villages and scorched fields, the army of poor and destitute who swarmed at every roadside cross and in every churchyard, were very hard on my conscience in the middle of England at harvest time. Without their crops, the poor would surely starve to death before Christmas. Robin, of course, had a shiny penny for each man, woman and child who asked for alms – taken from the fast-dwindling store of coin that we had liberated from the French. But that would only last them a day or so.

When I
gently chided him for his pointless generosity, he simply said I should trust him. Then he grinned and said that doubtless Our Lord would provide. It was an oddly religious thing for the Earl of Locksley to say: he’d always been against the Church and its teachings and I assumed he was mocking me for my faith.

On the twenty-first day of September, the feast day of St Matthew the Apostle, Robin and his band of men, raggedy from living rough for so long, sore from the long journey up from Kent, but still straight as spears in the saddle, rode into the courtyard of Rockingham Castle in Northamptonshire. It was a crisp, windy day, with the first sniff of winter in the air. But I felt a sense of homecoming: Rockingham was only two days’ ride from Nottingham. This was very nearly our part of the world. As I passed under the arch of the stone gatehouse and looked up towards the keep, I saw the three lions of England, gold on red, fluttering proudly above the crenellations in the stiff breeze and, while I hated the man whose presence the royal banner proclaimed, the sight of it gladdened my heart.

My spirits soared higher a moment later. For the first person I saw when I looked around the courtyard was a tall slim young man stripped to his chemise and hose, with a sword in his hand. He was sparring with a huge dark-skinned fellow armed only with a cudgel, and it took me a moment to recognise my son Robert and his bodyguard Boot.

Then my heart sank into my boots. A woman, lithe, light of step, with long raven hair gathered under a white cap, came hurrying out of the hall at the side of the courtyard. She had a thick blue woollen tunic over her arm and was calling to my son: ‘Robert, oh Robert, you will catch your death out here, you thoughtless boy. Now, stop your silly play-fighting and put on your warm tunic, put it on this instant, for me. Please, Robert, for me – put on this tunic for your Tilda.’

‘I
remember him,’ said the King triumphantly. ‘But was his name not something else? Lexington, Locksmith – no, Locksley. Yes, he was calling himself the Earl of Locksley.’

‘The Earl of Locksley and Robin Hood are one and the same man,’ said Brother Alan. He had spent the past half-hour describing to the King the events at Corfe Castle when Henry was an eight-year-old boy.

‘I remember you and the music we made together. You were a fine teacher. And I remember him, too – he was a dashing fellow even in his rags, charming, I recall. Mother didn’t like him but he soon talked her round. Persuaded her to allow you to move up from the dungeon to the blue room in the east tower. So that was the famous Robin Hood!’

The King beamed at the assembled company – Lord Westbury, myself and Brother Alan, and a gaggle of awestruck monks, all sitting on the hard stone benches around the sides of the chapter house.

‘Well, I feel better about hanging the other ones now – damn imposters,’ said the King. ‘Tell me, Brother Alan, what became of the Earl of Locksley – the genuine Robin Hood – I take it he is no longer with us.’

‘I have
been recounting this tale to Prior Anthony here, telling him what became of Robin Hood after we joined your father’s army at Rockingham Castle in the autumn of the year of Our Lord twelve hundred and sixteen. He has been making a record of the events for posterity.’

‘Indeed?’ said the King. ‘Well, let us have it, then. I do love a good tale.’

‘Sire,’ said Brother Alan, ‘I must warn you. There may be things that are difficult for you to hear, concerning your royal father.’

‘I doubt there’s anything about Father that I don’t already know. He was an absolute shit of a man, by all accounts – awful father, terrible King. There, I said it. Now I doubt there’s anything you could say about the man that would genuinely shock me.’

‘You might be surprised,’ said Brother Alan.

‘I believe I have made my wishes perfectly clear,’ said the King, his voice taking on an altogether more regal tone.

‘Now, have that old fellow with the tray bring us some more of his cakes and a cup of wine – oh, and somebody had better send word to Clipstone that we’ll be a little late for dinner. And you, Brother Alan, may now tell me this intriguing tale of Robin Hood.’

‘As you wish, Sire,’ said Brother Alan.

I
should have gone over and embraced my heir, my own beloved flesh and blood, but for some strange reason I did not. Perhaps it was because I did not want to have to engage with Tilda, to decide how I felt about her acting like a mother to my boy, perhaps in some way I was afraid of her. But, for whatever reason, I acted shamefully and ignored both Tilda and Robert and strode over to join my lord at the entrance to the keep. I saw Boot looking at me in astonishment – but I ignored him too as I bounded up the steps to the keep.

Robin and I were ushered into the great hall by a trio of black-clad servants, announced by a sonorous herald.

The large hall was half-full of men: royal servants and men of the Church mostly, but a few of the peacock courtiers who always accompanied the King were with him and the usual contingent of wolf-grim mercenary captains glowered around John himself as he warmed his hands at a huge fireplace set into the wall. I saw Savary de Mauléon, the man who had saved us at Rochester, leaning against a pillar, half in the shadows and watching the proceedings with a wry smile.

King John
glanced over at us as we were announced. I knew better than to expect praise and thanks from him. Nonetheless, some gratitude was certainly Robin’s due, for he and Cass had caused enormous damage to the French invaders in the south at a time when almost no one else was resisting them. A gracious monarch would have at least acknowledged that contribution to the war. But John was no gracious monarch.

‘Locksley – here at last. Where have you been? I expected you weeks ago.’

‘Sire, we had some difficulties with the forces of the enemy,’ Robin lied. ‘Difficulties that required us to take a more circuitous route to your side.’

‘Well, you are here now, I suppose. In future, when I summon you, you are to come to me as quickly as possible. No lollygagging. No dilly-dallying. There is no excuse for this shameful tardiness.’

‘Indeed, Sire,’ said Robin, ‘I shall strive to be supremely punctual in future.’

It never ceased to amaze me how Robin – a brave, proud warrior, jealous of his honour, even haughty in other circumstances – could transform himself into this smooth-talking, easy-mannered courtier at the drop of a silk kerchief, with his oleaginous ‘Indeed, Sires’ and his genuine-seeming smiles. He would be laughing at the King’s feeble jokes next. I knew I could never do it.

‘A man who is constantly late,’ the King was saying, looking into the fire and rubbing his hands, ‘is in danger of being made permanently late!’

The courtiers exploded in a gale of titters. The mercenary captains frowned.

I caught Robin wincing for just an instant before he recovered himself: ‘Ah, Sire, how very droll. You mean late as in the late Lord de Vesci, God rest his soul.’

‘May he burn in a traitor’s Hell,’ said the King. ‘He brought the Scots
into our realm. When we catch up with those heathen savages, we’ll send them all to join him.’

‘Is that your plan, Sire?’ said Robin. ‘To confront the Scots army as it marches home?’

‘Maybe, maybe …’ The King had taken on a ludicrously cunning look. ‘Maybe I’ll march east instead and take on the English rebels – your old friends, Locksley. I hear Fitzwalter and his rebel scum are raising Cain in East Anglia. We’ll just have to see.’

I thought Robin would push the King for some sort of idea about his plans but he merely contented himself with another smooth ‘Indeed, Sire’.

There was a short silence. The fire crackled and spat. I shifted on my feet. My right shoulder was paining me after the long ride. And I was hungry.

Savary de Mauléon stepped forward towards the fire. ‘We were just discussing Lincoln, when you arrived, my lord,’ he said to Robin. ‘Perhaps you would care to let us know your thoughts on the matter.’

‘I think Lincoln is crucial,’ said Robin.

‘How so?’ said de Mauléon.

‘Lincoln is the high-water mark,’ my lord said. ‘So whether it stands or falls is vital to our success in this war.’

He was met with blank looks.

Robin said slowly, as if speaking to imbeciles: ‘Lincoln is besieged by the French, yes? They have the town and the lands around it but the castle is still being held against them by that extraordinary woman – what’s her name?’

‘Nicola de la Haye – a noble lady, both courageous and beautiful,’ growled Mauléon. ‘Have a care that you do not say anything against her good name.’

‘I’m sure she’s a paragon,’ said Robin. ‘She must be strong-willed to hold out so long against her enemies. How long has it been – six months? A year?’

Nobody
replied.

‘The thing is that this is as far north as the French have been able to get. There are a few rebel holdouts north of there but they will wither if they receive no aid. Eustace de Vesci is dead and his castle and lands in Northumberland are now held by a child. The Scots – forget about the Scots, they just want to get home before winter sets in. My advice would be to let them go. The real enemy is Prince Louis and his men have got as far as Lincoln. If Lincoln falls, they will carry on northwards, link up with what’s left of the northern rebels and perhaps the Scots, too, and we will have lost. If Lincoln continues to resist or, better still, if we can ride to its relief and that of this brave lady Nicola de la Haye, we will have won. Lincoln will have been the high-water mark; after that the French tide is going out. The pendulum swings our way. Louis’s territory in England shrinks and his grip on our land slips a little more each day. That is why I say Lincoln is crucial. And to me it is obvious that we must ride to its rescue.’

‘So it is Lincoln today, is it, Locksley?’ said the King. ‘Last year you were urging me to hurl myself at London.’

Robin shrugged.

‘Prince Louis has made Gilbert de Gant, who is besieging the castle, the Earl of Lincoln,’ said Mauléon, with a sideways glance at Robin. And was that a wink?

‘That cur! How dare he think to bestow titles in my realm,’ shouted John. He had gone from jovial contempt to full-blown anger in an instant. His face was as red as a sunset; he seemed to be chewing on his own teeth. ‘I will gut him like a fish. I will rip out his liver. I will smash his head between two millstones …’ Then the King seemed to master himself. He looked around at the courtiers and mercenaries. He was breathing deeply.

‘Oh, get out all of you. I would be alone. Get out, go!’

We shuffled out of the hall, many of us crowding in the doorway, leaving the King glaring at the fire, his fists bunched by his
sides with rage. As we left, I found Savary de Mauléon at my shoulder.

‘You did very well in the south,’ the Poitevin said, speaking close to my ear, ‘and the King knows it. Tell Locksley the King is grateful to him for his service.’

‘But is he?’

‘He’s like a bad-tempered child sometimes, but he is still King. And he needs men like Locksley, even if he doesn’t know it. If you won’t tell Locksley the King said it, say that I thank him on the King’s behalf for his service in the south.’

‘I will,’ I said. ‘And thank you for this. I lifted up my left arm and tapped the hilt of the misericorde that was strapped beneath the wide sleeve of my chemise.

‘Wield it wisely,’ said Mauléon. Then he was gone.

Robert, Boot and Matilda Giffard were not the only people who had unexpectedly joined the King’s army at Rockingham Castle that autumn. The next day Robin’s eldest son Hugh arrived with fifty men from Kirkton. The Locksley troops were allocated a barn in the courtyard and they filled it to overflowing with their horses, war gear and baggage; Robert, Boot, Tilda and two men-at-arms from Westbury called Nicholas and Simon, who had accompanied them, were in a stable next to it. I claimed a stall in the stable and ordered Boot to rake out the horse droppings and fill it with clean straw.