The King’s Assassin (26 page)

‘Thank you, my lord,’ I said, and gripped his arm.

Robin’s departure with Little John, Hugh, Miles and all his men left Westbury much diminished. But the place appeared bigger, too, and seemed to echo with its new emptiness. Sir Thomas had disappeared after the battle – I suspected that I knew where. But I could not blame him for seeking his pleasures after facing the storm of battle and I pretended not to notice his absence. So we were an even further depleted company when we sat down to dinner: Robert, Baldwin and myself, with Alice serving the repast. Baldwin made an attempt to lift my spirits with toasts to our triumph and stirring tales of the attack on the walls which Hugh and his men had so bravely fought off. But I was in no mood for the traditional self-congratulations of victory. It felt more like a defeat. Tomorrow I would go with penitence and promises to try to appease the wrath of my enemies.

When I reached the gates of the town the next day, I was half expecting to see the walls lined with armed men. And I halted long out of bowshot to try to gauge what sort of reception I would receive. As well as Robin’s messenger, I had sent a man from Westbury to herald my coming. I had asked for an audience with the sheriff at noon, and I had added that I came under a flag of truce. I did not seek to be shot down as Sir Thomas had slain the Flemish mercenary Nicholas of Hainaut.

Nottingham seemed entirely normal. There were a few bored crossbowmen on the town walls, who ignored me, and I was stopped by only two sergeants-at-arms at the town gates who asked my business. I sensed no danger at all.

I was wearing no mail – just a blue tunic, black hose and riding boots, covered with a long grey cloak, but Fidelity was at my waist and I had the misericorde strapped to my left wrist. The sergeants did not attempt to disarm me, they merely summoned an escort of half a dozen men from the guardroom and gave them orders to escort me to the great hall where the sheriff was holding court.

I felt no qualms until I reached the inner bailey of the castle itself. And there, the first thing I saw, over by the old alehouse, was a square-built structure, a platform on four legs as wide as a cottage, with a high beam suspended above it, the whole business newly constructed of green elm beams.

It was a gallows.

The sheriff received me in the great hall of Nottingham Castle. I knew that hall well but that day it seemed different. The space was filled with men-at-arms, mostly French mercenaries, like their lord, but I also heard the English-sounding words of Flemish being spoken by more than a few of the mailed men who stood around, laughing and joking, swigging ale or wine, and pinching the backsides of the prettier women servants. The hall had the atmosphere of a campaign tent or a barracks: drunken familiarity and sweaty male camaraderie. It was a far cry from the stiff formality and hushed awe of the place when King John was in residence – but then this sheriff, this Frenchman, was a stranger in this land: he was an occupier, sent here by the King to prey on the people and strip as much wealth as he could from the English. As a foreigner, the sheriff must feel unsure, perhaps even unsafe, which was why he kept himself surrounded by his armed men.

Not all the men there were foreigners. I was greeted, if that is the word, at the door of the hall by Sir Benedict Malet. He treated me with his usual contempt: ‘So you are here at last. Hope you brought cash,’ was all he said before leading me through the throng to meet Philip Marc, who was standing at the rear of the hall surrounded by a pack of guffawing French men-at-arms.

It crossed my mind, briefly, that it would be a service to mankind if I were to draw my misericorde and shove it hard into Benedict’s kidneys, but I restrained myself.

‘Ah, it is the noble Sir Alan Dale. You have come to pay me the money you owe, I make no doubt.’

The half-dozen men-at-arms in the pack around the sheriff had spread out in a half-circle. They listened to our conversation and from the smirks and nudges that they gave each other, I had the feeling that they were expecting some entertainment.

‘I have come to discuss the scutage demanded by the King.’

‘It is the same. Thirty marks, I believe it was that we agreed. You have it?’

‘As I said, I mean to discuss it with you. Like a Christian.’

‘Good, let’s discuss like Christians. But I am afraid I have some bad news for you, my friend. The King has decided –’ Marc looked sideways at the men around him, and they sniggered like naughty children – ‘I say the King has decided that thirty marks will not do. Oh, no, when we last spoke the price was thirty. Now it is fifty marks. Yes, fifty. As I’m sure you know, he is quite an insatiable man.’

I dug the nails of my hands into my palms but said nothing. My face must have been a picture, for the men-at-arms fell about laughing when they saw my response to their master’s words.

‘Tell me, Sir Alan, how is your charming son – Robert, is it not? He is in good health, I trust?’

‘He is well … well guarded,’ I said through my teeth, ‘as I believe we proved to you not two days hence.’

‘Yes, I heard you had a little affray at Westbury. Attacked by masterless thieves and evil men from Sherwood, I hear. An outrage, by my faith. And you saw them off. Very good, Sir Alan. I am pleased for you. But you must be fatigued after all your exertions. Pray, rest a little, take your ease. I will discuss the fifty marks you owe me later this afternoon.’

‘I am quite ready to talk now,’ I said.

‘No, not now. I have a little business of my own that I must conclude before I can satisfy you, some business of the law. That is ever my burden as sheriff. But before we get to that, I am told you are a singer, is this so? Yes? Then, if you are not tired you must sing for me and my men. We sadly lack for entertainment here at the castle. A few passing jongleurs, and most too frightened to perform. Sing well and maybe, just maybe, the King will see fit to reduce your debts, eh?’

‘I should prefer to discuss the tax money now, sir,’ I said, hanging on to my temper with all my strength.

‘No, sir, you will sing. You will sing now. I have a great love of music, I am a most cultured man. You will indulge me and then, perhaps, I will indulge you, eh?’

‘I have no vielle, sir. My instrument is at Westbury. I cannot sing without it. Perhaps if we were first to discuss the money…’

‘I know where I can find a vielle,’ said Benedict unhelpfully. ‘There is a fellow in the alehouse below the castle who plays tunes for flagons of ale. He cuts a very amusing caper, too, while he plays. Perhaps Sir Alan would also care to dance while he plays. Should I fetch it, Sir Philip?’

I wished then that I had sliced up the fat bastard’s kidneys. But it was too late. Benedict Malet was already pushing through the throng to fetch the instrument, and Philip Marc was clapping his hands and announcing to the whole hall that the famous
trouvère
Sir Alan Dale would entertain us with his celebrated music. Furious as I was, I knew that I had to do it: if I could please him – and God how I hated the weakness of my position that forced me to do that – then I might perhaps succeed in reducing the debt. But I felt no better than a whore.

The vielle was a poor specimen, old, warped and unvarnished, and the bow was worse, the horse-hairs split and bunched at the top. However, I believe I managed to produce a passable sound. I did not dance. But I did sing. Judging my audience of mercenaries, most three parts drunk, I sang the great lays of France: of Charlemagne; of Roland and Oliver; stirring tales of battle and death, of self-sacrifice and tragedy. I swear that even those rough foreign men-at-arms were moved. I saw the dark bulk of Boot in the back of the hall staring at me with his huge red mouth open like a fish.

To finish off, just for the sheer devilry of it, I told them I would play a
canso
that I had written with King Richard the Lionheart – the finest monarch I had ever had the pleasure of serving. I gave them ‘My Joy Summons Me’ – and I put my heart and soul into it. The hall was absolutely silent when I had finished.

I tossed the old vielle to Sir Benedict, who was gazing at me with mixed hatred and awe, and strode over to Philip Marc.

‘Now, sir, I should like to speak about my debts,’ I said.

The man was actually weeping. ‘No, no, Sir Alan, we cannot talk of such sordid matters now,’ said Marc, wiping the tears from his cheeks. ‘I have a task in the bailey that I must oversee. But your music was … it was magnificent. And I thank you, thank you, Sir Alan. You made me feel … ah, but forgive my nonsense. We will certainly talk afterwards, we will talk in an hour or two, my friend.’

I followed the herd as it streamed out of the hall and into the inner bailey. More than a few of the tough mercenaries pounded me on the back as they passed and offered me words of praise and, despite everything, I was warmed by their pleasure.

The crowd gathered around the huge gallows that I had noticed in the bailey. It was no longer empty. Six men were now upon it. Five of them were bound fast with ropes and ties and were secured to five wooden stools on the plank surface. I knew not one of the five bound men – but the sixth was Boot. He wore a black leather jerkin and a cloth hood that covered his face save for two eye-holes and a gap for his mouth, but there was no mistaking his size and the copper-brown skin of his bare arms. A priest also dressed in black climbed up the steps and on to the gallows platform, followed by Philip Marc and his lumbering hound Sir Benedict Malet. The priest began to pray aloud for the souls of the five men, but his mumbled words were drowned out by Sir Benedict, who produced a roll of parchment and began to read a list of five names and professions: they were townsfolk, shopkeepers, merchants, artisans, all citizens of the middle rank, some I gathered of not inconsiderable estate.

‘You men have all been found guilty of evading the King’s taxes, lawfully levied upon your properties, and by this contumelious action you have forfeited the right to the King’s protection. In the name of the law, I sentence you all to death, may God have mercy upon your souls.’

I saw that Philip Marc was looking directly at me. Good God, had this crude display been arranged solely for my benefit? I broke my gaze from the sheriff. The priest had ceased his mumbling. Boot strode to the first victim – and I realised belatedly that there were no ropes attached to the beam above their heads.

This was to be no hanging, no commonplace execution.

Boot grasped the head of the first man. The crowd fell silent; I could hear a strange sound emanating from the huge man’s red lips, it was high-pitched, eerie, but I could clearly recognise a tune. The monster was singing. Stranger still, I recognised that tune. He was singing ‘My Joy Summons Me’. I felt sick. What cruel mockery was this?

Boot’s fingers closed around the first man’s skull, his huge arms gave one swift wrench, and the man’s spine snapped like twig. The victim uttered not a sound – but the weird singing coming from the huge red mouth never ceased – the man’s head lolled on his chest, the neck unmistakably broken. I felt fingers of ice crawl up my spine. The huge executioner stepped over to the second man, grasped his head and twisted, and once again snapped his backbone as easily as if he were a chicken for the pot. And so he progressed through all the condemned men, dispatching each in an instant, coldly, efficiently, like a man arranging a row of melons in some eastern market.

And all the while, in his high, whining voice, he sang my song.

I admit that I was shocked, and a little unnerved, by the execution. I have seen death many times, and a dozen executions or more – I watched my own father hanged by the neck as a child – but few have chilled me like that cruel display.

In something of a daze, I found myself in the hall with Philip Marc an hour later. The sheriff seemed to me to be in a fine, happy mood. He cut himself a thick slice of mutton from a joint on the sideboard, and munching it, he said: ‘So, Sir Alan, to business – I am at your disposal. I hope our little display of justice in the courtyard has shown you the consequences of refusal to pay the King’s taxes.’

I had planned to flatter and wrangle, to cajole and reason with the sheriff. But the sight of those five men meeting their Maker in such a brutal fashion drove all my soft words from my head.

Instead, I said: ‘I cannot pay you. I do not have the money. Truly I do not.’

‘No?’ said Philip Marc, cocking an eyebrow at me. ‘No, I see that you do not. But perhaps you can get the money for me, eh? Perhaps if I give you some more encouragement. With more incentive, as my clerks say, you might find it.’

I was perplexed by his words and frowned at the man. The sheriff gave a chuckle. ‘But I must not be so obtuse,’ he said. ‘Malet!’ he suddenly roared. ‘Benedict, where are you, my plump gosling?’

From a door at the far end of the hall, Benedict Malet emerged, smirking nastily. Directly behind him came two men-at-arms, and between them I saw with mounting horror that they held the writhing body of a small boy. It was Robert.

I was on my feet and heading for the trio in an instant, when Marc stopped me with a few words. ‘Take another step, Sir Alan, and the boy dies.’

I saw that one of the men-at-arms holding my son had a blade at his jugular, ready to slice deep.

‘What is the meaning of this!’ I roared at the sheriff. ‘I came here under a flag of truce, on the promise that no harm would come to me…’

‘And no harm shall come to you, my dear Alan, as long as you behave yourself. No harm shall be done to your son, either. On exactly the same conditions.’

I looked at Robert. His eyes were huge with fear. ‘They tricked me, Father. It was a dirty trick. I got a message from you saying that I was to ride immediately to Nottingham, and to come without telling anyone at Westbury. It said you urgently needed my help. Oh, Father, I truly thought it was from you. I am so, so sorry.’

‘It doesn’t matter, Robert,’ I said. ‘It really is no matter.’

‘I am afraid that I have indulged in a
ruse de guerre
,’ said Sheriff Marc. ‘I am afraid that I delayed you for a little while until you and Robert could be united here. I do hope you will forgive me, but I was not certain that you would clearly see the importance of paying your debts if we did not apply a mite of pressure.’