Rix shot me a malevolent glare. ‘We will try this matter another time,’ he said before wiping the gorgeous sword carelessly on his yellow tunic hem, sheathing it, turning his back on me, walking away and stepping long-legged over the rope to disappear into the crowd.
‘You’re damned right we will, you murdering bastard,’ I muttered, sheathing my own weapon. I walked back to the ropes, but I could not help myself from turning as I reached them. As I watched, the giant form of Milo padded over to the kneeling, blood-drenched Wulfstan, and with one seemingly effortless wrench of his meaty hands quickly snapped the man’s neck and sent him instantly to the next, and I most earnestly pray, better world.
Perhaps as a punishment for my unruly behaviour, Prince John decided that I should become a tax collector. With a shameless disregard for truth, decency and knightly honour that stole the very breath from my lungs, the Prince announced that he would take it upon himself to begin collecting the taxes to pay for King Richard’s ransom. He gathered a score of knights in the main courtyard of the middle bailey and harangued us for an hour about the fate of his poor brother, kept in chains in Germany, and exhorted us to hear no excuses, listen to no lies, to search every croft and cot diligently, and spare no one in gathering funds for the enormous ransom that doubtless would soon be demanded for his dear brother’s release. The ransom silver, Prince John informed us with a perfectly straight face, would be kept safely here in Nottingham Castle, under his watchful eye, until the time was right to release our beloved sovereign. This drew one or two sniggers from the assembled knights, but their merriment was quickly quelled by Sir Ralph Murdac’s cold blue eye searching for culprits in the throng. He stood beside his master like a faithful hound, in his shadow, shoulder wedged up high, and surveyed the crowd of fighting men in the courtyard for signs of disloyalty. Naturally his eye alighted on me. I gave him a big, toothy grin. And a lascivious wink.
No one in that packed bailey believed for a heartbeat that Prince John had any intention of handing over the silver once it was collected. And that was fine; we were all his loyal men, and we would all share in his future good fortune, if, Heaven forbid, something fatal were to befall good King Richard.
And so I became a tax collector, which was, I can heartily assure you, one of the most distasteful labours that I have ever undertaken.
A few days later, we cantered out of Nottingham: myself, a big sergeant and six mounted men-at-arms and a rat-like priest called Stephen. I had dispatched Hanno on some errand the day before and did not expect him back for several days. Father Stephen carried the parchment rolls in his saddlebags; the long lists therein recorded the wealth of every single hovel, cottage, farmstead and church in the manor of Mansfield, the area we had been assigned to gather revenue from that day. Other parties of knights and men-at-arms had been dispatched to various manors, towns, districts and villages for the same purpose, and there had been much discussion and some complaints when the assignments had been handed out by Sir Ralph Murdac. Some men had demanded larger areas, others had whined that the manors in their allotted sector were too poor to be worth much. It was clear that many of the knights who had flocked to Prince John’s banner were privately reckoning how much they could squeeze from the places they were taxing, and just how much they could get away with keeping for themselves. To swear allegiance to Prince John, I realized with a sinking heart, was to receive a licence to plunder.
England had made itself especially beautiful on that April morning as I rode north through Sherwood at the head of the column of eight men. The sun smiled down on us in a kindly manner, the sky was a deep untarnished azure, bright new green leaves rustled in the slight breeze, bluebells carpeted the shady ground beneath the tall trees, jays swooped among the branches and wood pigeons carolled sweetly to us as we passed. I glimpsed a hump-backed boar through the thick forest undergrowth, rooting for last year’s acorns; and a slender fallow deer, just standing and staring at us with its enormous eyes, and I was instantly transported to happier days, hunting with Robin and his outlawed men in these parts; days full of ale and laughter and comradeship and the excitement of the chase.
As we rode through villages, scattering piglets, chickens and geese before the hooves of our horses, I could see the peasants planting onions and leeks in the little plots of land outside their cottages, and peas and beans in the big communal fields outside the village. These were the men and women who worked, who supported the whole kingdom on their sturdy backs. My family had once been like them, and though I had risen to become a fighting man, I always reserved a loyalty for them, and a respect for their endurance and quiet courage. I knew these good people, I had grown up around them, as one of them. These were the folk whose sweat and toil would create the silver that one day, I prayed, would bring King Richard safely home.
We stopped at noon at an alehouse, and while my men ate bread and cheese and sucked down the local ale at a rough table in the sunshine outside the house, I spoke to them about our mission, and told them what I expected from them when we reached the manor of Mansfield.
‘We are not going there to loot,’ I said sternly to a gathering of big, violent men in iron-ringed coats with sharp swords strapped to their waists. ‘We are not going there to steal. We are going there to collect the rightful taxes that are due, and not a penny more.’
There was some grumbling and muttering at this. I waited patiently for silence and then continued:
‘Most especially we are not going to rape, or abuse, or kill anyone. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Begging your pardon, sir, but what is to be our share of the take?’ asked the sergeant, a fat man, grey at the temples and scarred from battle.
‘We do not share in what you call “the take”. Do you not receive a daily wage of two pennies from Prince John, a recompense for service to your lord? That is your share of the take. That is the money you are being paid to perform this labour. I want you all to understand this. Every coin that we raise will go to Nottingham. Father Stephen has the amounts that we are to collect listed on his rolls; we will collect them, with firmness and fairness, and deliver every penny to the account-keepers in the castle.’
There was an outbreak of tumult, angry men hammering pewter mugs on the tabletop and shouting at me. I had not made any new friends with my little speech. The priest, our lettered clerk, looked at me with his darting, rodent eyes; then he looked away quickly. I would find no support there.
‘So what do you get out of this, eh?’ said the sergeant. He was red in the face and waving his finger underneath my nose. ‘Kindly tell me — and the lads here — what your share will be. More than the few extra pennies we might have scraped up, I’ll be bound.’
I grabbed his finger in my left hand and his wrist in my right, and twisted, bending the digit back against the joint. He gave a high-pitched animal scream of pain that shocked the noisy table into silence. I leaned into him so that our faces were only inches apart.
‘When you address me, Sergeant, you call me “sir”. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ he said, and I could see that his fat face was greasy with pain-sweat.
‘Yes what?’ I demanded, and gave his finger joint a sharp twist. He howled again but managed to squeaclass="underline" ‘Yes, sir! Yes, sir!’
‘Not a penny of this tax money will stick to my fingers — nor to yours. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Fine,’ I said, and released him. ‘Now, all of you, get mounted. This respite is over; we’re riding out.’