The Iron Castle (Outlaw Chronicles) (43 page)

I found the key among dozens of others on the big ring, a small iron item with a comb-tooth design, and fed it in the padlock and turned it. The lock fell open and with my heart thumping, and keeping one ear cocked for any sound of my hosts, I pushed open the lid of the chest.

There were more than a score of parchments in there: deeds for the Seigneur’s several properties, charters of parcels of land he had granted to loyal men-at-arms, old servants and to the Church … and several charters sealed in red wax between His Most Royal Highness, Philip by the Grace of God, King of France and half a dozen of the barons of Normandy.

I scanned through each document quickly, searching for the name and then discarding it. Some were men I knew well, some were men I did not – but none of these turncoats had been inside the Iron Castle during the siege.

And then I found the one who was.

I looked at the name. I read it twice, three times in disbelief.

I sat back on my heels, stunned. I felt like weeping. I wanted to burn the charter with the Sparrow’s name on it. I wanted to unmake it, to make it untrue. I wanted to pretend I did not know his all-too-familiar name, to wipe it from my memory. Then I took a grip of myself. I was going to kill this man, this traitor. I was going to rip out his beating heart. I was going to be the agent of vengeance for Kit and Little Niels and all those who had died in the bitter months of siege and starvation. Whatever it cost, and I knew the cost would be unbearably high, the traitor must die.

I put the documents neatly back into the chest and locked the padlock once more. Then I secured the great door of the house, hung the keys on their hook and went upstairs to bed. As I lay sleepless between the fine linen sheets, I thought about the journey that I had to undertake. A journey north. To England. To Yorkshire. To Kirkton. To the home of my lord Robert Odo, Earl of Locksley. Where I would find the traitor who called himself the Sparrow; the man I must destroy.

I bid farewell to Roland and Adele ten days later; there were certain matters I had to arrange before my departure. I could not look the Seigneur d’Alle, my kindly host, squarely in the eye when he embraced me and wished me well on my journey to England. To make my shame even worse, they made me costly gifts – a new full suit of iron mail, a lively rouncey to ride on the road, food and wine for the journey, letters of safe conduct that would get me though any road block manned by King Philip’s men-at-arms, and a heavy purse of silver for any expenses I might incur.

I felt like a knave as I slunk from their loving smiles and fondly waving kerchiefs, and made my way north through the busy streets of Paris. But my mood soon lifted after I passed through the Porte St-Denis and found myself on the old Roman road heading north. My left arm was well-mended by then, and I was fit once more after months of good food, rest and exercise – it was early July, the sun shone in a cloudless sky, the roads were dry, and I had a pleasant encounter to look forward to before I crossed the Channel.

Three days later I knocked at the gates of Fécamp Abbey and was granted admission. A servant took my horse and I was allowed briefly to wash and drink a jug of water, and then shown into the cloisters.

I had expected a quiet, empty, columned square, covered on the four surrounding sides and open in the middle, perhaps paved with limestone blocks – and I was almost exactly right. But it was by no means quiet. Or empty.

The cloisters were thronging with monks, loud, cheering, jostling, excited monks. Scores of them. They filled every side of the square, hanging from the columns, shoving each other out of the way to find a better place. But for their sober black habits and rope belts, I could have taken them for a meeting of rowdy London apprentices. In the centre of the cloister, two big men, stripped to the waist and covered with oil, were grappling with each other. The one with his back to me was a giant of a man, with a vast expanse of muscular back, a bull-like neck and a thatch of grey-blond hair. On his right side a thick ridge of pinkish scar tissue curved all the way from his lower ribs to the small of his back, evidence of a grave wound taken in the recent past. But it seemed to be well healed. The second man was only slightly smaller and marginally less well built than the blond giant. I had a brief impression of a bald head, broad hairy shoulders; massive, thickly furred hands. Then I looked again and saw that the second wrestler had his hair cut in a tonsure, the pate shaved and a ring of brown hair resting above huge sticking-out ears. The noise of the crowd was ear-splitting. Monks were arguing with their fellows and roaring encouragement to fighters – I suspect there may even have been some discreet wagers taking place. The men heaved at each other for several moments, straining with all their might, their legs like trunks of oak planted in the stone flags of the cloister floor – and then the hairy man changed grip, pushed, pulled and all of a sudden the big blond fellow shot forward, flipped over his opponent’s hip and crashed to the floor.

The monks around the cloister bellowed – some cheering the hairy fellow, others crying shame for the blond man, who was panting on the floor, holding his side, but with a wide grin on his big ugly red face. It was, of course, my old friend Little John.

The winner of the bout raised both his hands in the air and called for silence, and oddly the cloister quietened immediately.

‘Right, back to your labours, you lazy scoundrels, the amusement’s over for today. Come on, come on, this is a place for peaceful contemplation of Our Lord, not a tavern for unruly layabouts. Back to work with the lot of you!’

He reached out a hand and pulled Little John to his feet with surprising ease.

My old friend pushed past the huge monk and came straight towards me, grabbed me by the shoulders, looked into my face and enfolded me in a huge embrace. He stank of sweat and oil, but I was very pleased to see him so hale and strong; even if I was a little astonished that he had been vanquished by this tonsured stranger. I was even more astonished by his next words: ‘Alan, may I present His Grace Abbot Gervaise, master of this unruly House of God’, and I found myself grasping hands with a sweaty, half-naked and rather furry prince of the Church.

When he was washed and dressed, Little John and I took a walk on the cliffs to the north of the abbey. It was a hot, sunny afternoon and a delightful cool wind came off the sea. I asked John to explain to me why he had been grappling with such a spiritually exalted opponent.

‘Oh, Gervaise and I have a bout almost every week. He loves to wrestle and, as you saw, he is a master of that noble form of combat. I challenged him initially, oh, six months ago, to get myself back in condition after my wound had begun to heal, and we have continued our meetings on a regular basis. The brothers enjoy it, as do we. Sometimes he wins, sometimes I do – and we take good care not to treat each other too roughly.’

‘You are fully healed then?’

‘Aye, but God’s bollocks, Alan, it took me long enough. For months I was hanging on by my fingertips; I truly thought I’d had it. The brothers say it is a miracle I survived. But I think it had something to do with drinking from the Grail, as we all did in the south … Any road, I’m healed and ready to return to England and Robin. I have enjoyed Fécamp, and I owe Gervaise and his brothers my life, but I tell you, Alan, I’m not cut out for this holy life. I grant you there are more than a few handsome novices here to gladden the eye, but there is far too much praying, too much repenting, not nearly enough honest slaughter. I need to put some fire back in my veins, Alan. I am sorry I missed the siege – it sounds like a rare brawl.’

‘We could have used you,’ I said. I told him all about the Iron Castle, of the battles in the baileys won and lost, and about the traitor, how the Sparrow had betrayed us at every turn, ushering the French in through the chapel window, revealing to them that we were digging a counter-mine, letting them into the keep – all of it. Little John looked as grim as midwinter. I told him about Kit’s death and the deaths of so many brave Wolves, and finally I told him I had discovered the identity of the traitor – and who it was. He stared at me for a long time.

‘Are you sure of this, Alan? It could not be some mistake?’

‘There is no mistake. And I am going to kill him, I truly am. Will you come with me and help me do this thing?’

Little John was silent for a moment. Then he looked me in the eyes and said, ‘Yes, he must die, and yes, I’ll help you do it. By God’s great hairy bum crack, you’ll only make a bloody mess of it if you try to do it all on your own.’

A week later, on a bright summer morning, Little John and I were riding up the steep rutted track from the River Locksley with the Castle of Kirkton, home of my lord, high up on the ridge, above the little church of St Nicholas. It was good to breathe the clean fresh air of Yorkshire once more and, although oppressed by what I knew must soon come to pass, I was infinitely encouraged to have Little John’s massive form at my shoulder and his cheerful crudities echoing in my ear.

We were greeted with joy at the castle by Marie-Anne, Countess of Locksley, and I was warmed to see so many familiar faces. I had not realised until then how much I missed the rough, happy company of honest English folk; I had been among sly Frenchmen and arrogant Normans for too long and I felt a great sense of happiness and of homecoming, despite the task at hand. But I could not afford to let my happiness at being home divert me from my grim duty.

I asked after Robin and I was told he was out hunting with his guests at Locksley chase, near the manor of Wadsley, which was a large area of wooded land to the east, a little to the north of the road to Sheffield. Little John and I set out immediately, dumping our baggage in the courtyard at Kirkton, without bothering to eat, drink or even wash the dust from our faces.

We found Robin an hour later, just before noon. We were drawn towards the party by the noise of a celebration, musicians playing, bawdy jests being shouted.

We dismounted, tied our horses to the branches of a tree and walked into a broad clearing where a large round table had been set out in the centre of the glade. The table was filled with gold and silver platters and vessels, and steaming plates of roast meats, brimming bowls of fruit and flagons of deep red wine. A dozen red-faced servants and hooded huntsmen bustled about bringing yet more food and pouring water and holding clean linen towels so the diners could wash their hands. A full-fig feast had been laid in the clearing; all the splendours of the hall at Kirkton.

Robin sat at the centre of the table, which was covered in a snowy white cloth. His laughing face had filled out since I last saw him in Paris and he looked completely relaxed and happy. On his right sat Sir Joscelyn Giffard, in the very act of washing his fingers, as we approached. To Robin’s left sat Sir Benedict Malet, his fat face already bulging as he chewed on a plump roasted chicken leg.

‘Alan! John! What an unexpected surprise to see you here. Welcome, welcome my friends. Come, sit with us, join the feast.’

Servants hurried here and there bringing stools for us to sit upon, a fresh ewer of water and clean towels, and I took my place beside Sir Joscelyn. Little John sat beside Benedict Malet and helped himself to a hunk of white bread. Robin’s guests looked surprised to see us but not unduly alarmed at our arrival.

I smiled at Sir Joscelyn and greeted him with full courtesy.

He enquired after my health and my doings since the siege and I replied affably enough, but without giving too much detail. He told me that after his capture he had been held by the King of France himself and had only recently been freed upon the paying of his heavy ransom. I nodded as if I had expected this.

‘And how is my lady Matilda?’ I said casually.

He smiled at me, warily, and said, ‘I am proud to say, Sir Alan, that she has been admitted to the priory of Kirklees; only two days ago she was accepted as a novice by the Prioress. Praise God, she will spend her life in the service of Our Lord.’

‘You must be very proud,’ I said, spooning some venison stew on to my plate.

‘I am relieved, to tell you the truth, Sir Alan,’ said Sir Joscelyn. ‘My daughter was something of a wanton. I may admit this as I am her father, and we are among friends here, but she enjoys the company of men a little too much. Life as a Bride of Christ will safeguard her soul. I have the kindness of the Earl of Locksley to thank for her place at Kirklees. He has influence there, of course, and after the scandal at the abbey in Caen, I was lucky to find any House of God that would take her.’

‘Yes, I heard about that,’ I said, through a mouthful of stew. ‘I heard she frolicked all night in a tavern with several handsome young men.’

Sir Benedict made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a cough. Sir Joscelyn looked at me with drawn steel in his eyes.

‘You need not look so surprised, either of you,’ I said. ‘Bennie here had the pleasure of her during the siege, many times. I suspect that was just to persuade him to provide her with extra food from the stores. You were complicit in that crime, Sir Joscelyn, were you not? She gave herself to me, too, on the promise that I’d protect her if the castle fell. I think she gave her favours to a good many other men, as well, for some reward or other. She uses her body as coin to buy whatever she wishes.’

Sir Joscelyn was rising to his feet by this point, his face purple, his hand reaching for his sword hilt.

‘Enough, Alan,’ said Robin loudly. ‘Hold your tongue. I think we have all had enough of that kind of talk. Sit down, Sir Joscelyn, and let us have peace – and a toast. Let us all drink together to the brave men who died defending the Iron Castle.’

Robin raised his cup.

In an instant the clearing was all movement. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two unfamiliar hunt servants seized by the rest of Robin’s serving men. Sir Joscelyn was shoved back down on to his stool by two of the huntsmen, who I only now recognised as Wolves who had fought with us in Château Gaillard. The Wolves relieved Sir Joscelyn of his sword and dagger and passed the weapons behind them to waiting hands while they, standing one on each side of the man, kept a firm grip on his shoulders. Sir Joscelyn said nothing at all.