Robin took me by the chin and lifted my face so that I was forced to look into his bright silver eyes. ‘Do not judge me, Alan, until you know the burden I am carrying. And even then, do not judge any man, lest you be judged. Isn’t that what you Christians preach?’
I said nothing. ‘Come,’ said Robin, ‘let us part friends.’ And he smiled at me. I stared into his silver eyes and knew that as horrified as I was by his cruelty, I could not hate him. I smiled back, but it was a pale, watery grimace. ‘That’s better,’ he said. And he clasped my arm once and was gone.
Chapter Seven
Autumn was approaching; the days were growing shorter now and Sherwood, glorious with leaf-hues of copper and gold, was often filled in the early morning with a freezing mist. I began to wear my padded aketon almost daily and, when I visited Bernard for my music lessons, the first thing he’d do would be to ask me to make a fire to warm our fingers. With Robin absent, my adventure in Nottingham and the awful mutilation of Sir John Peveril seemed to belong to another world, like a dream — or a nightmare. I had returned to life at Thangbrand’s as if nothing had happened.
Sir Richard was leaving us. Murdac had flatly refused to ransom him, even though it was his clear duty to do so, as Sir Richard had been serving him when he was captured. By rights, Robin could have executed him. He didn’t, though; Robin sent him a message saying he was free to go and that it had been an honour to have him for so long as a guest. We held a feast to mark the knight’s departure from Thangbrand’s, for he was much liked and respected by the outlaws, and I performed for the first time as an apprentice trouvere, thinking of my father as I sang.
I am afraid it was a dreadful song, unworthy of his memory, delivered without accompaniment, about a knight who having travelled the world and done great deeds and won great renown was finally returning to his hearth to hang up his sword and husband his lands. I have tried very hard to forget it, but I recall rhyming plough with slow, and I think that gives you its flavour. My poor efforts were kindly applauded by the company — and then Bernard sang. It was one of the finest performances I ever saw him give: he started with a bawdy, stomach-clutchingly funny song about a rabbit knight that wants to mate with a lady rabbit, with much amusement about finding himself in the wrong hole; then Bernard, judging the amount of wine and ale that had been taken perfectly, gave them a classic song of doomed love, Lancelot and Guinevere. Those rough outlaws were weeping by the time he bowed the last exquisitely beautiful chord. And then, again judging his audience perfectly, he gave them a stirring battle song to lift their spirits: the tale of Roland dying heroically at Roncesvalles, a ring of slain Moors at his feet and his horn clutched to his heart. They cheered Bernard to the rafters at that. And then everyone, including me, drank themselves unconscious.
The next day, Sir Richard made a solemn vow that he would not reveal any information about Thangbrand’s to the sheriff — after Murdac had betrayed him I doubt he would have done so anyway. He was then blindfolded and led back through the narrow, secret paths of Sherwood to the Great North Road.
Just before he left, he gave me a gift. It was a poniard, a beautiful foot-long piece of razor-sharp, polished Spanish steel, three quarters of an inch wide at the cross-piece and tapering to a wicked needle point designed to be thrust through chain mail, splitting the links with sideways pressure, and on into the body of an opponent. ‘This is a fine, strong blade,’ he said as he presented it to me. ‘And it has saved my life many times. Keep it about your person, Alan. It may one day save your life, too.’
I thanked him as they tied on the blindfold and I helped him into his saddle. ‘I am sorry that I will not be able to teach you how to use it,’ he said. As they spurred away, over his shoulder he shouted: ‘Don’t forget to move your feet!’
The very next day Tuck arrived at Thangbrand’s bringing supplies, half a dozen young men and boys for Thangbrand to train, and news. I was very pleased to see him and he greeted me with a great bear hug. ‘You’ve grown,’ he said. ‘And put on a little flesh.’ He grabbed my upper arm, kneading the muscle that had arrived after many hours of sword practice with Sir Richard. ‘You’re one to talk about flesh,’ I said, prodding him in his great belly. He aimed a gentle cuff at my head which I dodged easily.
As we sat down in the hall over a mug of ale and a cold roast chicken, Tuck’s face turned grave: ‘ I have bad news, Alan,’ he said. ‘It’s your mother.’
My heart lay like a stone in my chest. And he told me she was dead, killed by Murdac’s men along with many, many others in a raid on the village. ‘Sir Ralph told his men that he wanted to make an example of the village, as a warning to others not to harbour outlaws,’ said Tuck.
They had ridden in at dawn and started killing without ceremony; the grey-mailed horsemen chopping into men, women and children; attaching ropes to hovels and pulling them apart; burning anything that they couldn’t pull down. The men had fought, rake and spade against sword and mace, and they had died. Many ran into the greenwood to hide. An image of Thornings Cross, despoiled by the Peverils, came into my head. What difference was there, in truth, between the forces of the sheriff and a clan of robbers, I asked myself.
I was clutching the hilt of my Spanish poniard. ‘I must go there,’ I said, white-faced. But Tuck held my arm. ‘The village is gone, Alan. There is nothing left but ash and sorrow. Your mother is with God, now. I buried her myself and said the holy words over her body. She rests with the angels.’
‘If only I had been there. .’ Tuck put a brawny arm around my shoulders. ‘If you had been there you would be dead. No, Alan, God has other plans for you. Your path lies with us.’
He had other news but I listened to it through a haze of grief, as in a waking dream coming in and out of understanding of his words. Robin had been causing havoc in Barnsdale, Tuck told me, raiding cattle and sheep from Yorkshire landowners. He had been pursued by Sir Roger of Doncaster, who had nearly trapped him twice. But Robin linked up with his men and turning on his pursuer he had trounced him in a fight. Little John had been wounded — but not badly. Sir Roger had barely escaped with his life. Tuck’s story lifted my heart a little, despite the aching pain of my mother’s death.
‘What news of Marie-Anne?’ I asked timidly. Tuck gave me a strange look. ‘Robin’s betrothed, the Countess of Locksley,’ he said formally, ‘is at Winchester with Queen Eleanor, and unlikely to stir for a while.’ Then he changed the subject.
The Queen, I knew, was as good as a prisoner in Winchester, a hundred and fifty miles to the south. Henry, her husband and, by the grace of God, our King, no longer trusted her as she had supported their son Duke Richard in his wars in France against the King, and although she was allowed a royal retinue, including ladies in waiting such as the lovely Marie-Anne, and all the comforts that befitted her rank, she and her ladies were under strict supervision by the Constable of Winchester, a bastard of King Stephen’s known as Sir Ralph FitzStephen.
The chance of my ever seeing Marie-Anne again seemed impossibly remote. I fought back a fresh wave of misery and tried to pay attention to Tuck’s news from the north. ‘. . he’s nearly got all the men he needs,’ said Tuck. ‘They are all housed in and around a series of great caves in the north of Sherwood; perfectly well hidden and with enough room to house a small army. And, in perhaps a six-month, he’ll actually have a small army. .’ But I couldn’t concentrate on the news of Robin; my mother’s lined face, worn down by a lifetime of brutal work and private sorrow, rose before my eyes and tears spilled down my cheeks.