Hanno looked at me, dumbfounded. Then he slowly nodded his round shaven head. ‘It is your duty, no?’
‘Yes,’ I sighed. ‘It is my duty. But I swear now, before you, my friend, that I shall have vengeance on these creatures before I see Heaven. I swear it on the name of the Virgin, and I call upon St Michael, the warrior’s saint, to witness my vow. You have heard me, they have heard me, and now we must get away from here as swiftly as we are able. We need a boat. Any kind of boat will do.’
For the second time in a matter of days, I was running from an encounter with these two murderous bastards. In the name of duty to my King, I was sacrificing my personal honour. But I felt slightly better for my vow of vengeance; not entirely comfortable, but calmer. There would be a reckoning one day: I was certain of it. And on that day I would carve them both into bloody lumps.
But in the meantime what we needed, what I prayed for, was a boat
…
And it seemed that God had been listening to my prayers, for within the hour — while I knelt by Perkin, straightening his dead limbs and placing his poor head as close to his neck as possible, my eyes burning from the smoke and barely able to breathe — Hanno reported that not ten yards from the smoke- and blood-stained jetty he had found a craft hidden in the reeds: a battered skiff just big enough to hold two heavily laden men.
‘It must belong to the white monk who tends this wharf,’ said Hanno. My friend’s words prompted another question: Where was the surly Premonstratensian canon?
We found him soon after, seated behind the hut that he used for shelter, an extra mouth gaping below his chin: his throat had been cut from ear to ear. I gazed at the man’s body, the front of his white habit sodden and scarlet with his blood, and a terrible weariness came over me. I had seen so much death, too much. Would there ever be an end to Man’s evil? Why did God allow his servants to be slaughtered like this by men who were clearly spawned by the Devil? I could find no answers. All I could do was repeat my vow to St Michael that I would take red vengeance for these foul acts before too long.
Leaving the dead where they lay, trusting that the monks of Tuckelhausen would bury them and say a Mass for their souls, Hanno and I clambered into the skiff. Setting our leather back-sacks in the middle of the vessel, and taking up two paddles that we found in the bilges, we set off downstream, rowing slowly and steadily, and letting the slow current do most of the work.
I passed the remainder of that day in a stupor, head wearily nodding on my breast as my muscles automatically worked the paddle, though my cracked ribs sent pain stabbing down my left side with each stroke. But with God’s help, and Hanno’s unflagging work, we reached Wurzburg that same evening. And while I was staggering with pain and exhaustion, Hanno arranged for us to occupy palliasses in the almshouse of the cathedral. I was asleep as soon as my head hit the thin, damp straw mattress.
For two days I slept, waking only occasionally to answer the calls of nature and to eat a little soup that Hanno brought to my palliasse. I was exhausted, worn thin in soul and body by the harrowing fall of events. And my ribs were hurting worse than ever. But while I was idle, Hanno was not. On the morning of the third day, he introduced me to a badly scarred, grinning rascal named Dolph who, for the princely sum of five shillings, was willing to take us in his trading galley all the way to Utrecht. It was an extortionate price for such a voyage, but I had the money — Queen Eleanor was paying, after all — and while the man looked to me like a pirate, Hanno, it seemed, trusted the fellow. I never did discover whether Dolph was truly a river pirate, but I did find that he was a man of his word. While I slept for most of the journey, nursing my aching ribs, Dolph took us quietly and efficiently down the rivers Main and Rhine, and seven days later, with a cheery nod and a hand clasp, he deposited Hanno and myself together with our precious back-sacks at the docks in Utrecht.
Three days later, I was standing in my salt-stained clothes in a private chamber of Westminster Palace, face to face with my King’s venerable mother, Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine.
Chapter Eleven
The Queen looked as lovely as ever, dressed in a burgundy gown with pearls at her throat, and her auburn hair caught up in a golden net. But looking closer, I could see that her fine features were a little worn with care, and for the first time I could begin to see her true age in the lines on her still beautiful face. Her reception of me was far warmer than at our last meeting, and she rose from her high-backed chair to greet me, ordering a servant to bring wine and asking after my health in a most considerate manner.
I handed over the letters which were addressed to her — I had dispatched Hanno to deliver the rest — and stood patiently while she read them, sipping from a silver-chased wooden cup of wine and admiring the gold-embroidered tapestries on the walls of the chamber. The Queen was not alone, of course. Walter de Coutances, the Archbishop of Rouen and the Queen’s most loyal counsellor, was in attendance, too. He seemed barely able to restrain his impatience while she read through the letters, almost snatching them from her fingers the moment she had finished reading them and devouring the contents the way a starving man wolfs down a plate of food.
‘You have done very well, Alan,’ said the Queen with a smile. ‘And I am most grateful to you. We all are. Your service shall not be forgotten when this business is over.’
I was muttering something about not seeking any reward, that the honour of serving my King was ample reward in itself, when the archbishop rudely interrupted me.
‘It seems that Boxley and Robertsbridge have the situation in hand. They say they will stick like glue to the King until we can arrange the ransom,’ he said to the Queen, ignoring me completely. ‘But it is going to be expensive, very expensive…’
‘The Church in England must be made to play its part in raising the money,’ said the Queen, fixing the archbishop with a meaningful look. ‘I am thinking we must appropriate the gold and silver plate from every parish church in the land. And Boxley suggests that we take some of the Cistercians’ wool crop, too — that will be worth a pretty penny.’
‘Yes, that might be possible,’ said Coutances. ‘And the nobility must pay its share, too, but I fear that will not be enough.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Some of the burden will have to fall on the common people. I’d urge a general tax of one quarter the value of all moveable property. We will need to collect the silver — there will be a vast quantity of it — at a central point. Here in the crypt in the Abbey, perhaps, or in London at St Paul’s…’
Suddenly reminded of my presence, the Archbishop frowned at me. ‘Perhaps, my lady, we might discuss this in private…’ And he inclined his head in my direction.
‘Alan, will you excuse us, please?’ she said to me with a lovely smile.
Making my bow, I withdrew, leaving the old man and the Queen to their deliberations.
I had no desire to linger in Westminster. I had a horror of running into Marie-Anne, who I had heard had not followed Robin into the woodland exile of an outlaw, but had remained under the protection of Queen Eleanor in the safety and comfort of her court. After my betrayal of her beloved husband at the inquisition in Temple Church, I knew I could not face the accusatory look in her eyes should we meet.
I was happy, though, to be reunited with my grey gelding Ghost, who had put on an alarming amount of weight in the palace stables while I had been in Germany, and who had completely recovered from his bruised hoof. He was happy to see me, neighing and nodding with pleasure, when I brought him a special feed of warm mash that evening, and I took my time over brushing his coat, vowing that I would take him out for a long gallop the next day.