While I was fussing over my animal friend — I believe I was braiding his tail like a besotted stable hand — I heard a familiar voice calling me by name and wishing me God’s peace, and turned to find myself facing a slim, fit-looking man of medium height, with cropped, iron-grey hair and muddy green eyes.
It was Sir Nicholas de Scras, an old friend and well-liked comrade from the Holy Land, who had tended me when I was sick with fever in Acre. But while his face was wonderfully familiar, there was one thing about Sir Nicholas that was different: his surcoat. When I had known him in Outremer, Sir Nicholas had been a Hospitaller, a member of a religious knightly order similar to the Templars, but concerned with healing the sick as well as fighting the infidel. Their surcoat was an austere black with a small white cross on the breast. The man who stood before me in the stable was sporting a dark-blue garment with three golden scallop shells on the front around a representation of a dolphin.
‘Sir Nicholas,’ I almost shouted, clasping his hand warmly. ‘I am so pleased to see you! But what brings you to England? Have the Hospitallers abandoned the Holy Land to the heathen Saracens?’
‘They have not, and God willing they never shall,’ my old friend said, smiling back at me. ‘No, it is I who have abandoned the Hospitallers.’
‘How so?’ I asked, amazed.
‘It is a sad tale,’ he said, his eyes crinkling with sudden unhappiness, ‘and one that would be better told over a cup of wine. Will you join me? I know of a tavern that will suit our needs admirably. It is not far.’
And so I found myself once again at the table in the Blue Boar tavern where I had caroused with Bernard six weeks previously, sharing a flagon of the same green Rhenish wine with my old friend Sir Nicholas.
After some gossip about the Queen’s court at Westminster, I urged Sir Nicholas to tell me how he had come to leave the Hospitallers. And so he began: ‘I would not have left, had it not been for the death of my elder brother Anthony. He died in the autumn — fell from his horse; he cracked his pate, breathed his last three days later. It was a silly, pointless death, and not worthy of a fine man. But he is with God now, and so beyond the cares of this world.
‘His poor wife, Mary, is left with two small sons. The eldest, William, will inherit our lands in Sussex, but he is a child, barely able to walk let alone administer an estate or defend his property during the coming years of blood and violence. And so, when news reached me of Anthony’s death, I was left with a stark choice: return home to England to protect my brother’s family or remain faithful to my Order.’
Sir Nicholas took a gulp of wine. It was clear that he was still not entirely reconciled with the choice he’d made.
‘For seven days and nights, I prayed. I spent a week on my knees in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. Under the truce with Saladin last year, after King Richard departed Outremer, we Christians were permitted to visit the holy sites unmolested. So for a long week I asked God for guidance. Should I go home to defend my family’s lands or remain with the Hospitallers? And through Heavenly Grace I was granted a sign.
‘The silence of that holy place was suddenly broken by two boys, a Christian and a Muslim, who ran into the church shrieking and laughing at some game of their devising. In that moment, I knew that God was sending me a message. Those two happy children were not much older than my nephews, and, though they were of different faiths, born of enemies, during the truce when they were allowed to mingle, the boys had managed to find a fresh, innocent joy in each other’s company. I knew then that God meant for me to make my own peace with the Saracens, leave the Holy Land and return to protect my brother’s boys.’
He wiped away the suspicion of a tear, and I admit I felt like shedding a few myself, moved as I was by his tale.
‘I went to see the Grand Master the next day to tell him of my decision, and of his mercy and doubtless because the truce meant that he had a lesser need for experienced fighting men, he agreed to release me from my vows. So, here I am, back in England for good. Tomorrow I must travel onwards to Sussex to take up my sword on behalf of my family. But I must tell you, Alan, it was not easy to turn my back on the Order. Even though I believe that God directed my actions, I cannot help but feel that, in some way, I have behaved shamefully.’
He fell silent, and for a few moments I said nothing. I could only wonder at the strength it must have taken for him to break his sacred vows, to give up his calling for the sake of two small boys who were not even his own. Once again Robin leapt into my mind; I recalled his sacrifice on behalf of another small boy who was not his son. There was something of Robin in Sir Nicholas, I mused: a ruthless fighting man, doubtless a fearsome killer of men, but with a streak of compassion, too, and a fierce sense of family duty.
‘You said that bloody violence was coming to England,’ I said, mainly to break the silence. ‘What did you mean by that?’
Sir Nicholas had composed himself by now. ‘Oh, this business between Richard and John. They are both sons of King Henry and both want the throne. And while Richard has it now, he is imprisoned in the wilds of Germany. Who knows when he will return? Meanwhile, John is gathering his power, calling barons and knights to his banner, recruiting fighting men… Even if Richard were to return soon, he would have an almighty battle on his hands. John has taken Tickhill Castle and Mount St Michael and Marlborough and Nottingham castles. It will not be an easy matter to dislodge him from these fortresses when — or even if — Richard returns. And for all we know, the King could already be dead.’
I longed to blurt out all I knew, to set his mind at ease on that score, but my mission to Ochsenfurt was supposed to remain secret for the moment and I could not allow myself to betray the Queen’s confidence. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a big man in the corner of the room. It was the boorish fellow Tom with whom I had fought the last time I had been drinking in this place. I stared over at him, a challenge in my eyes. But when he saw me looking at him, he hurriedly finished his tankard of ale and shambled out of the tavern without a backward glance. I put him out of my mind and concentrated on what Sir Nicholas de Scras was saying.
‘… I miss Outremer,’ he said, a low hum of emotion in his voice. ‘I miss the certainty of the cause; of knowing that we were engaged in God’s work, serving Him in everything we did. I had a place in the world, a purpose. Now, I don’t know. Nothing is clear any more. I had friends there, good friends, but I know almost nobody at court now. And in Sussex… well, I left my brother’s hearth a long time ago. It’s a good twenty years since I was there. England is a foreign land to me now.’
I looked at Nicholas. The wine seemed to have made him a little maudlin.
‘Do you remember Sir Richard at Lea?’ he asked, his muddy green eyes clouding with sorrow.
I nodded, and took a frugal sip of my drink.
‘I miss him. He might have been misguided enough to join the Templars, but he was a true Christian, a true friend. It was not a death worthy of a noble Christian knight, to be cut down like that, guarding some merchant’s caravan. I’d like to get my hands on the men who killed him, would that I knew who they were. Bandits, just… fucking scum.’
I was surprised by his use of such earthy profanity. I could not imagine the Sir Nicholas I had known in Outremer, the holy warrior, the man dedicated to God, using such a term. And I did remember Sir Richard at Lea. He had been a good friend to me, too.
I also remembered Sir Richard’s death, for I had been there, only yards away, when he died. I remembered the casually efficient way that Little John had cut the Templar knight’s throat at Robin’s command after Sir Richard had been captured. It was a source of pain to remember it. Shame, too. I had railed madly at Robin for ordering the death of such a good man. In fact, I had fallen out with my master badly over it and had even considered leaving his service as a result. The ‘fucking scum’ Nicholas was talking about were Robin’s men; we had robbed the caravan purely so that Robin could make an unsubtle point to the wealthy frankincense merchants of Gaza, to convince them that they should deal exclusively with him.