There was nothing for it but to recruit help; a man with genuine knowledge of the area and a perfect command of the local language, too: Hanno.
My round-headed friend was overjoyed to be joining me on this journey; it was a chance for him to revisit his homeland, and perhaps see something of his friends and family. And I was pleased to have him with us, for he was a master of most types of warfare and, though I did not doubt my own abilities in this arena, I was taking my role as protector of the abbots seriously and Hanno would be invaluable to have at my side in a fight. He joined me in Robin’s quarters, and the three of us were discussing which religious houses we might safely stay at on our journey, when the door flew open and Marie-Anne came striding into the room. It was clear that she had been weeping, and there was an evil purple bruise on the side of her blotched face that was only partially covered by her white linen headdress. In one hand she was holding out a scroll of yellow parchment, sealed with wax and tied with a red ribbon, a letter. Her other hand was held out of sight behind her back.
‘This came for you,’ said Marie-Anne, thrusting the rolled parchment at Robin, her voice trembling with emotion, a mixture of rage, hope and fear.
‘And with it came… this!’ Marie-Anne pulled her hand from behind her: she was holding a tiny blue shoe, a shoe that I had last seen on the end of Hugh’s foot as the black ship pulled swiftly away from us over the grey waters of the Thames.
I never read that letter, although its full import was made very clear to me that evening. On the surface it was another courteous invitation for Robin to present himself at the new Temple Church the next day — St Polycarpus’s Day — to answer before the inquisition convened by the Order of the Temple the charges of heresy, demon-worship, blasphemy and other assorted acts of wickedness. There was no mention of little Hugh at all. And yet the real meaning was entirely clear. Either Robin submitted to the Templars’ justice or his son and heir would die. The letter requested Robin to present himself, unarmed and with only two attendants, at the Templars’ Gate at noon the next day. Robin’s face was quite expressionless as he scanned the missive. I saw him look up at Marie-Anne and hand her the letter to read. Her face, in contrast, became white and worried, and she began to gnaw at her little finger as she looked at him, her big blue eyes beseeching. Robin hesitated for only a single heartbeat, and then he smiled. It was a bright, warm, comforting smile, a loving smile that made a solemn promise, and he opened his arms wide and she fell into them weeping, but this time with relief. They were enfolded in a tight embrace for a long time, the only sound that of muffled sobbing from Marie-Anne as she crushed her face against Robin’s neck, while Hanno and I exchanged embarrassed glances.
‘Well,’ said Robin, finally releasing his Countess. ‘It seems that I have underestimated these people. Alan, would you be kind enough to call for one of the Queen’s messengers. I think we need to make the terms for the boy’s release absolutely crystal clear.’
I knew in my heart what Robin was about to do. He was about to willingly put his head into a Templar noose to save the life of a little boy — a boy who was not even his true son. Whatever Robin had done in the past, whatever selfish sins he had committed, he was still willing to sacrifice his own life in an instant, to burn at the stake, a hideously painful and slow death, for love of his wife, for love of Marie-Anne and her bastard son Hugh, the progeny of an enemy.
I should not have been surprised by Robin’s actions, as I knew him well by then and fully understood his outlook. He had explained it to me years before, quite soon after I had joined his group of outlaws. ‘There are two kinds of people in the world, Alan,’ he said, ‘those inside my circle, whom I love and serve and who love and serve me — and those outside it.’
At the time I merely thought he was giving me a warning, and I had nodded enthusiastically to show that I understood, but later I realized he was explaining his personal doctrine to me. Robin had continued: ‘Those inside the circle are precious to me, and while they are faithful, I will always be loyal to them and do my utmost to protect them, even at the cost of my own life. Those outside this circle,’ he shrugged, ‘they are nothing.’ The way he said it had sent a chill down my spine.
When I contemplate Robin’s crimes, the acts of selfishness and cruelty that most appalled me, I try to remember that it was always people outside his charmed circle, or those who had betrayed him, who suffered by his actions. For those inside the circle, such as Marie-Anne, and little Hugh, and even myself, he would gladly die.
We rode east up the Strondway, the broad street leading towards London, in force: twenty mounted men-at-arms in full war gear, armed with sword, shield and spear, as well as Robin, Tuck, myself and Marie-Anne. Our route took us past the inn of the Bishop of Exeter, which was shut tight and locked, the bishop being away from town, through the raised wooden barrier of the Templar Bar and into Fleet Street. At the Temple Gate, we halted outside the round arch of the entrance while a standard bearer carrying Robin’s personal flag, a black-and-grey wolf’s head snarling from a white background, blew a trumpet to alert the occupants to our presence, although there was strictly no need, as I had already seen a man scurrying away into the Outer Court to inform his Templar masters that we had arrived. The sun was high, a pale coin in a grey February sky, and we waited without speaking, the only sound the occasional clop of a horse’s hoof, a whinny or two and the gentle jingle of steel bridle parts as the horses shook their heads.
As we waited, I looked east up the muddy street, past various huts and dwellings, past an alehouse and a pie shop to a large open-fronted building on the north side of the road, where a fire was roaring under a large, smoke-blackened metal hood. As I watched, a huge muscular man with a mop of bright blond hair and what looked like a leather patch over one eye pulled a strip of metal from the fire and began to hammer at it on an anvil in front of the forge. The blacksmith was half a bowshot away with his back to me, and yet, as I observed him knocking flakes of orange metal from the half-made sword blade with powerful strokes of his hammer, I had the strange feeling that I knew him from somewhere. But that, surely, was impossible — I knew almost nobody in London. Silently I willed him to turn and look at us, so that I might identify him, but he remained bent over the anvil, bashing away at the red-hot metal while turning it with a great pair of pincers. That in itself was slightly odd. Who would not stop work for a few moments and turn to gawp at a conroi of heavily armed cavalry a hundred yards away? Perhaps he was entirely intent on his work, I mused, or deaf from the constantly ringing blows of his hammer, as well as half-blinded.
My attention was soon diverted from the industrious blacksmith by the arrival at the gate of a Templar knight, accompanied by six tough-looking Templar sergeants dressed in black tunics over their hauberks and armed with swords and spears. I saw that the knight was Sir Aymeric de St Maur, the man I had met in Pembroke Castle, who had called Robin a demon-worshipper. And in his mailed fist, gripped securely, was the arm of a squirming little boy.