The three men listened to me in silence and I was just finishing my tale, describing how I came back to consciousness to discover the wagons were gone and I was surrounded by the mounds of dead, when Prince John interrupted me: ‘You really are quite a good liar, for a steaming pile of low-born pig shit.’ He sounded as if he genuinely meant it.
‘A liar, sire? I hope not…’ I said, trying to look confused, but with my belly dissolving.
‘Be silent,’ said the Prince. ‘I have heard enough of your dissembling. Guards, bind him.’
Half a dozen men fell upon me and removed my sword, misericorde, and my mail coat. My hands were roughly tied behind my back. I did not resist: the only way out of this was to keep my head.
‘Sire, might I be permitted to know the meaning of this? Is it some playful jest? A game, perhaps?’ I asked with as much humility as I could muster.
‘You know very well what is happening,’ Sir Ralph Murdac answered for the Prince and smiled nastily at me. ‘We have known for some weeks now that you, through your German servant, have been supplying information to the outlaw Robert of Locksley. Did you think we were completely stupid? You have forsaken your oath of loyalty to your Prince; you are forsworn, and a traitor. You have betrayed us and will suffer the penalty that is your due.’
If Sir Ralph was visibly enjoying himself, Prince John seemed merely bored. ‘You have fulfilled your function here,’ he croaked. ‘Once we were sure that you were still labouring on Locksley’s behalf, we hoped to use you to trap the man. If you knew that a great shipment of silver, weakly guarded, was coming here from Tickhill, you would be bound to inform your master. And he would be bound to try to steal it. We arranged for a force of knights to trap him in the very act of the robbery — but it seems they failed to defeat Locksley’s rabble. I am at a loss to explain why — we sent sixty brave knights to intercept him. Perhaps your master really does consort with the Devil — if such an unlikely creature really exists.’
At this, Sir Aymeric de St Maur gave Prince John a sharp look. But the Templar said nothing.
Prince John continued in his harsh voice: ‘Your usefulness is over, Dale. Too many of my men have died at Locksley’s hand, and I will lose no more. It is time for you to pay for your crimes — and his. So I have arranged a match tomorrow afternoon, a public wrestling match: you will fight my champion to the death — as a little “amusement” for the loyal men of Nottingham. Tomorrow you will face Milo in the list; no weapons, no rules — man to man. And you will die.’
Part Three
Chapter Fifteen
All is not well here at Westbury. The peril from Osric has grown and looms much nearer — he now has a confederate! I saw my bailiff meet his accomplice in secret in the back of one of the disused stables at the edge of the courtyard, the night before last. As I peered through a chink in the wooden slats of the wall, I saw Osric by the light of his lantern, greeting and conversing with a soberly dressed man in a neat black skullcap — but one look at his evil face, brown, creased and warty, and I knew that he meant no good. He is dark of eye, dark of dress, dark of heart — bent and stooped and old, almost as old as I am. The two conspirators talked for a long while, but in tones too low for my worn-out ears to hear. The dark man seemed to be angry about something. Osric soothed him and it seemed that their disagreement was soon resolved, for the stranger passed Osric a small clay pot, sealed with wax, and received a couple of silver coins in return — whatever was in the pot must command a high price. By his dress and demeanour, I guessed that this dark man was an apothecary and that the clay pot contained some sort of poison.
Black rage at Osric’s perfidy boiled then in my gut and yet I did not challenge my bailiff openly, as I did the last time. He would no doubt have found some seemingly plausible reason for his secret meeting after nightfall with a purveyor of poisons, although what that might be, I cannot imagine. Instead, I went to Marie and told her what I had seen of her husband’s conspiracies. It was an even graver mistake.
‘You are a stupid old fool!’ Marie said, when I awoke her that same night with my tale of Osric’s sinister business with the apothecary in the stables. She had already taken to her bed, but I wanted her to see with her own eyes their plotting. ‘To even think, to even entertain the notion that Osric means you harm — it is ridiculous, absurd even. He respects you, and wishes you nothing but health and prosperity. Has he not shown it with his work here at Westbury? He has made this little manor a great success. Go to bed, you silly old dotard, be grateful for Osric’s hard work, and put these idiotic thoughts from you.’
She is clearly in league with him: I see that now. I was a fool to reveal my suspicions to her. Osric and her, newly married, greedy, ambitious, impatient: of course, they both wish me dead. With me gone, they can do with the manor as they will. Perhaps Osric will install one of his tall sons as the lord. I fear for little Alan, my heir: who will protect him? Not I. I am an old man now, how can I stand against the combined cunning of Osric and Marie? I feel my doom approaching.
And there is worse to relate. This very night, not an hour ago, as I worked on this parchment with scant thought of the danger that surrounds me, I drained the last drops from a wooden mug of ale and discovered a white powdery residue in the bottom of the mug. The poisoners have struck! The contents of the clay pot have found their way into my belly and there is toiling, moiling through my guts to achieve my destruction. I feel Death’s bony hand upon my shoulder. I made myself vomit, of course, as soon as I saw the white residue. I spewed in my chamber pot until I could bring up no more. But I can feel the poison working in my body: I am growing sleepy, so very careworn and tired. But I must not sleep, I must go on and finish this tale before the cursed white powder drags me down into the grave.
I have barricaded the door against them, and routed out an old sword from my chest, which now leans unsheathed against the lectern that I stand at and write upon. If they try to break into my chamber tonight I will defend myself, and perhaps kill one or both of them. But I do not wish their deaths as they wish mine; I merely pray they will leave me in peace for one last night. If I am to finish this tale before I am called to God, I must endeavour to write on as quickly as I am able…
There is a great comfort to be found in prayer, particularly when you are certain that you will shortly be face to face with your Creator. And I prayed that night in Nottingham Castle as I have never prayed before. I did not fear death, but I did not want to perish. I did not want my earthly life to be ended by Milo, that monstrous half-human being, for the amusement of Prince John, Ralph Murdac and all the other castle knights that I had come to despise. And if the measure of a man is how he faces up to his Fate, I fear I did not measure well. I prayed, I prayed again and then I prayed some more.
The guards had taken me to the lowest part of the great tower, in the cold stone heart of Nottingham Castle, cut my bonds, and thrown me into a storeroom half-filled with sacks of grain. It was completely dark in there, and silent too, but for the occasional scurry of a rat — but to be honest it was not uncomfortable. When I had finished praying, I laid my body down on two large full sacks of barley and thought about how I had ended up here.
I remembered Robin’s face when he told me what he wanted me to do, in Westminster, the day before the inquisition at Temple Church. His silver eyes were blazing with intensity and he said: ‘I know this will be very hard for you, Alan, and dangerous, too, and I would not ask it if it were not of the utmost importance — but we must have a man inside Prince John’s camp.’